f  LIBRARY 

1      UNIVERSITY  OP 
V       CALIFORNIA 


BORN    FEB.  27,   1807.       DIED    MAR.  24, 


HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW 


BIOGRAPHY,  ANECDOTE,  LETTERS,  CRITICISM 


BY 

W.  SLOANE  KENNEDY 

/i 

Author  of  "  Poems  of  the  Weird  and  the  Mystical,"  Etc. 


A  Student  of  old  books  and  days, 

To  whom  all  tongues  and  lands  were  known 

And  yet  a  lover  of  his  own  ; 

With  many  a  social  virtue  graced. 

And  yet  a  friend  of  solitude ; 

A  man  of  such  a  genial  mood 

The  heart  of  all  things  he  embraced, 

And  yet  of  such  fastidious  taste, 

He  never  found  the  best  too  good. 

Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn. 


FOURTEEN  ILLUSTRATIONS,  WITH  Two  PORTRAITS 


AKRON,  OHIO 
THE  SAALFIELD  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  1903  CHICAGO 


LOAN  STACK 


COPYRIGHT   i88z 
BY   MOSES    KING,  CAMBRIDGE,  MASS. 


COPYRIGHT   1895 
BY   THE   WERNER    COMPANY 

Longfellow 


THE  WERNER  COMPANY 

PRINTERS  AND  BINDERS 
AKRON,  OHIO 


- 

CONTENTS. 


kf 


P1GB 

BIOGRAPHY .       .  9-166 

ANECDOTES  AND  LETTERS 167-258 

GENERAL  CRITICISM 269-306 

POETS'  TRIBUTES 307-334 

EARLY  POEMS 335-352 

BIBLIOGRAPHY  .                      353-362 

INDEX  363-368 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BIRTHPLACE 17 

CHILDREN'S  ARM-CHAIR .119 

CORNER  IN  THE  POET'S  STUDY 251 

CRAIGIE  HOUSE 45 

CRAIGIE  HOUSE,  WEST  SIDE 51 

CRAIGIE  HOUSE,  MALL  ON  WEST  SIDE 177 

EARLY  HOME 8 

ELMWOOD Ill 

PORTRAIT 2 

HOWE  TAVERN  (THE  WAYSIDE  INN) 93 

OLD  ROUND  TOWER,  NEWPORT 239 

PROFILE  PORTRAIT 149 

ST.  JOHN'S  MEMORIAL  CHAPEL 305 

THE  POET'S  STUDY  .  .165 


602 


LONGFELLOW'S    EARLY    HOME. 

ON  CONGRESS  STREET  IN  PORTLAND. 


PREFACE. 


TT  is  the  part  of  a  host  who  is  entertaining  a  distinguished 
-  company  to  keep  himself  in  the  background,  and  see  that 
his  guests  are  properly  introduced  and  grouped.  What  is 
trae  of  a  social  gathering  is  true  of  such  a  work  as  the 
present :  it  is  eclectic  in  character,  a  mosaic  of  the  choicest 
thoughts  of  many  minds,  —  for  the  most  part  digested  and 
incorporated  into  a  continuous  narrative  by  one  whose  own 
personality  is  kept  as  much  as  possible  out  of  view,  —  thus 
fully  justifying  the  pleasant  and  characteristic  remark  of 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  :  "  Your  book,"  he  said,  "  is  like  a 
huckleberry-pie,  containing  a  great  many  good  huckleberries 
and  very  little  batter.'* 

Materials  for  a  biography  of  Longfellow  were  abundant  and 
rich.  Much  had  been  written  about  him  previous  to  his 
death ;  and,  after  that  event,  reminiscences,  anecdotes,  and 
reviews  appeared  in  profusion,  both  at  home  and  abroad. 
Whatever  was  of  permanent  value  and  interest  in  this  pub 
lished  material  has  been  culled  for  the  present  work,  due 
credit  being  given  to  the  authors  in  every  case.  But  scattered 
throughout  the  volume  are  numerous  anecdotes  and  reminis 
cences  now  for  the  first  time  published.  They  were  obtained 


6  PREFACE. 

by  personal  conversation  and  correspondence  with  friends  of 
the  poet.  Authorities  have  been  consulted  at  first  hand 
whenever  it  was  possible.  Proof-slips  were  sent  to  those 
whose  writings  are  quoted  in  the  volume,  and  many  correc 
tions  and  improvements  have  been  made  by  them.  Proof- 
sheets  of  the  entire  volume  have  been  carefully  read  in 
detail  by  several  eminent  men  of  letters  who  were  intimate 
friends  of  the  poet.  To  these  gentlemen,  and  to  all  who  have 
given  their  generous  aid  and  advice,  the  writer  renders  most 
sincere  thanks.  Yet,  after  all,  such  work  as  this  is  its  own 
reward.  It  is  impossible  to  study  so  pure  a  life  as  this  vol 
ume  commemorates,  without  receiving  some  of  its  lustre  and 
perfume  into  one's  own  nature. 

Besides  the  full  biographical,  anecdotical,  and  critical  in 
formation  furnished  in  the  following  pages,  there  are  also 
given  Mr.  Longfellow's  juvenile  poems  hitherto  unpub 
lished  in  America  in  book  form,  his  letters  to  various 
persons,  a  selection  of  poetical  tributes,  and  a  Longfellow 
bibliography.  It  is  believed  that  all  readers  of  the  juvenile 
poems  will  find  in  their  quiet  beauty  and  tender  purity  of 
sentiment  abundant  justification  for  their  presentation  here, 
although  they  were  not  considered  by  their  author  to  be 
worthy  of  preservation  in  permanent  form.  It  is  interesting 
to  see,  that,  from  the  first  note  to  the  last  of  our  poet's 
songs,  hardly  one  discord,  or  one  instance  of  bad  taste,  can 
be  found. 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  May  15,  1882. 


HENKY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


BIOGEAPHT. 


INFLUENCES  THAT  MOULDED  HIS  CHARACTER. 

IT  is  no  accident  that  the  writings  of  the  six  chief 
New  England  poets  —  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Whit- 
tier,  Bryant,  Holmes,  and  Lowell  —  should  be  charac 
terized  by  exquisite  moral  purity.  All  of  these  poets, 
except  Whittier,  are  of  Puritan  stock ;  and  their  poems 
are  nearly  all  suffused  with  a  subtle  moral  atmosphere, 
—  as  are  also  the  romances  and  stories  of  Hawthorne. 

The  town  of  Portland,  Me.,  where  on  the  27th  of 
February,  1807,  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  was 
born,  and  the  town  of  Brunswick,  where,  as  a  student 
in  Bowdoin  College,  he  passed  some  years  of  his  youth, 
are,  like  the  towns  of  Connecticut,  pervaded  by  a  spirit 
of  the  most  austere  Puritanism.  In  the  days  of  Long 
fellow's  boyhood,  this  stern  religious  spirit  was  all- 
dominant.  Each  community,  in  those  days,  was  a  little 
theocracy.  Tocqueville  rightly  says  that  the  New  Eng 
land  town-meeting  was  the  germinal  unit  of  American 
democracy;  but  the  town-meeting  was  ruled  by  the 
pulpit  and  the  pew.  William  Willis,  in  his  history  of 
Portland,  tells  us  that  as  late  as  the  first  quarter  of 

* 


10  '  IIENR  Y   WADS  IVOR TH  L ON GFELL O  W. 

the  present  century  public  dancing  in  that  town  was 
prohibited  bj  law,  and  cases  of  actual  arrest  for  the 
violation  of  the  law  are  noted.  The  inhabitants  fought 
with  tireless  persistency  all  attempts  to  introduce  the 
atres  and  theatrical  performances  into  the  town.  It 
was  not  until  1831  that  a  theatre  was  built  in  Free 
Street.  It  was  a  small  affair,  and  never  flourished,  and 
in  1836  was  sold  to  a  Baptist  society  for  a  church. 

There  were  very  few  public  amusements  in  the  Port- 
land  of  that  day,  and  such  as  were  in  vogue  were  of  a 
very  homespun  character.  Mr.  Willis  says  (p.  783) 
that  "it  was  common  for  clubs  and  social  parties  to 
meet  at  the  tavern  in  those  days ;  and  Mrs.  Greele's,  in 
Congress  Street,  was  a  place  of  most  fashionable  resort 
for  both  old  and  young  wags  before,  as  well  as  after,  the 
Revolution.  It  was  the  Eastcheap  of  Portland,  and  was 
as  famous  for  baked  beans  as  the  '  Boar's  Head '  was  for 
sack."  In  an  old  number  of  The  Cumberland  Gazette 
we  read  of  a  "  spinning-bee,"  given  at  the  house  of  the 
Rev.  Samuel  Deane.  Sixty  fair  hands  made  music  with 
the  humming  of  sixty  wheels,  and  near  the  close  of  the 
day  the  company  presented  to  Mrs.  Deane  two  hundred 
and  twenty-four  skeins  of  cotton  and  linen  yarn  spun 
that  day.  Homely  amusements  enough,  these  ! 

The  Wheelers,  in  their  history  of  Brunswick,  Me., 
say  (p.  214)  that  "  about  1821  an  attempt  was  made  to 
introduce  a  bass-viol  into  the  church  of  the  First  Parish ; 
but  the  project  was  thwarted  by  Mr.  William  Randall, 
an  influential  member  of  the  society,  who  declared  that 
he  4  wouldn't  hear  a  fiddle  in  God's  house.'  " 

Wagons  were  not  introduced  into  Brunswick  until 
1816  or  1817,  and  there  had  been  but  two  or  three 
carts  in  the  town  previous  to  that  date*  The  first  car- 


PATERNAL  ANCESTORS.  11 

pet  ever  made  in  Topsham  (a  neighboring  village) 
was  made  in  1799  by  Miss  Margaret  Rogers,  tlie  late 
Mrs.  Nathaniel  Greene.  The  first  theatrical  perform 
ance  in  Brunswick  was  given  in  1828,  for  one  week,  at 
Nichols  Hall,  by  a  company  of  comedians  from  the 
Tremont  Theatre,  Boston.1  In  1826  a  man  named 
John  Cleaves  Symmes  gave  a  course  of  three  lectures 
on  an  interior  world  which  he  maintained  was  open  to 
voyagers  in  the  southern  hemisphere.  "His  lectures 
were  well  attended,  and  were  listened  to  with  respect  and 
interest "  / 

Such  were  some  of  the  surroundings  of  Longfellow's 
boyhood.  The  kind  of  society  described  in  the  local 
histories  above  quoted  is  similar  to  that  depicted  in 
books  on  Connecticut  history  and  antiquities ;  such,  for 
instance,  as  the  pleasant  little  book  entitled  "  New  Con 
necticut,"  recently  published  by  Mr.  A.  Bronson  Alcott; 
or  in  such  works  as  the  Life  of  Horace  Bushnell. 

THE  POET'S  PATERNAL  ANCESTORS. 

Let  us  now  turn  our  attention  first  to  the  paternal, 
and  then  to  the  maternal  ancestry  of  the  poet.  The 
American  ancestor  of  the  Longfellow  family  was  Wil 
liam  Longfellow  of  Newbury,  Mass.,  who  came  to  this 
country  from  Yorkshire,  Eng.,  about  the  year  1651. 
He  was  the  great-great-great-grandfather  of  the  poet, 
and  the  lineal  succession  is  as  follows  :  — 


William,  merchant. 
Stephen  (1),  blacksmith 
Stephen  (2),  teacher,  etc. 


Stephen  (3),  judge. 

Stephen  (4),  lawyer  and  legislator. 

Henry  Wadsworth,  the  poet. 


i  The  entertainment  of  the  evening  consisted  of  Tohin's  comedy  oi 
The  Honeymoon,"  and  the  farce  of  "  The  Young  Widow." 


12  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW 

Of  William  Longfellow  this  much  is  known,  that  he 
was  a  merchant  in  the  parish  of  Byfield,  Newbury ;  that 
he  married  Anne  Sewall ;  and  that  in  1690,  as  ensign 
of  a.  Newbury  company,  he  took  part  in  the  ill-fated 
expedition  of  Sir  William  Phips  against  Quebec.  The 
fleet,  on  its  return,  was  overtaken  by  a  violent  storm  in 
the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence,  and  the  vessel  containing 
the  Newbury  company  went  ashore  at  the  desolate 
island  of  Anticosti.  William  Longfellow  and  nine 
others  were  drowned. 

Of  Stephen  (1)  the  blacksmith,  little  is  known.  He 
married  Abigail  Thompson  of  Marshfield. 

His  son,  Stephen  (2),  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1742. 
Stephen  (2)  was  the  first  of  the  Portland  Longfellows, 
coming  to  the  town,  April  11,  1745,  by  invitation  of 
Parson  Thomas  Smith,  to  act  as  teacher.  Portland 
was  then  called  the  Neck.  Stephen  was  schoolmaster 
of  the  town  for  fifteen  years  (1745-60).  His  father, 
dying  in  1764,  left  him  a  small  legacy.  The  son  sent 
the  silver  coin  to  Boston  for  the  purpose  of  having  it 
converted  into  a  memorial  silver-service.  Unfortu 
nately  the  vessel  by  which  it  was  sent  was  lost,  and 
the  coin  with  it.  But  Stephen  immediately  made  up 
the  amount,  and  sent  it  to  Boston,  this  time  success 
fully,  where  it  was  manufactured,  by  the  silversmith 
John  Butler,  into  a  tankard,  a  can,  and  two  porringers, 
each  piece  bearing  the  initials  S.  L.,  and  the  words  ex 
dono  patris.  "  The  tankard  has  been  preserved ;  and  one 
of  the  porringers,  after  a  somewhat  eventful  history, 
has  found  its  way  back  into  the  family,  and  is  one  of 
the  treasures  of  the  poet's  brother,  Alexander  W. 
Longfellow."  Stephen  (2)  held  many  important  town 
offices.  It  is  interesting  to  find  that  his  handwriting, 


HIS  FATHER.  13 

like  that  of  his  great-grandson  the  poet,  was  beautiful 
and  clear,  "  symbolical  of  the  purity  and  excellence  of 
his  own  moral  character."  He  married  Tabitha  Brag- 
don  of  York  in  1749,  and  died  at  Gorham  in  1790. 

Stephen  (3),  son  of  Stephen  (2),  was  born  in  1750, 
married  Patience  Young  of  York,  and  died  at  his  home 
in  Gorham  in  1824.  He  represented  Gorham  in  the 
Massachusetts  General  Court  for  eight  years;  was  for 
several  years  senator  from  Cumberland  County,  and 
judge  of  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas  from  1797  to  1811. 
"  He  was  a  fine-looking  gentleman,  with  the  bearing  of 
the  old  school;  was  erect,  portly,  rather  taller  than  the 
average,  had  a  strongly  marked  face,  and  his  hair  was 
tied  behind  in  a  'club'  with  black  ribbon.  To  the 
close  of  his  life  he  wore  the  old-style  dress,  —  knee- 
breeches,  a  long  waistcoat,  and  white  top-boots.  He 
was  a  man  of  sterling  qualities  of  mind  and  heart,  great 
integrity,  and  sound  common-sense." 

Stephen  (4),  son  of  Stephen  (3),  was  born  in  Gorham 
in  1776,  and  was  the  father  of  Henry  Wadsworth  Long 
fellow,  the  poet.  Stephen  (4)  entered  Harvard  College 
in  1794,  and  graduated  in  1798.  Daniel  Appleton 
White,  a  college  friend,  said  of  him,  that  "  he  was  evi 
dently  a  well-bred  gentleman  when  he  left  the  paternal 
mansion  for  the  university.  He  seemed  to  breathe  the 
atmosphere  of  purity  as  his  native  element;  while  his 
bright  intelligence,  buoyant  spirits,  and  social  warmth 
diffused  a  sunshine  of  joy  that  made  his  presence  always 
gladsome."  He  graduated  with  rank  and  honors.  Re 
turning  to  Portland,  he  entered  the  law-office  of  Salmon 
Chase  (an  uncle  of  Chief  Justice  Salmon  P.  Chase),  and 
in  1804  married  Zilpah,  eldest  daughter  of  Gen.  Peleg 
Wadsworth.  Stephen's  sister,  Abigail  Longfellow,  had 


14      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

married  Samuel  Stephenson,  a  rich  merchant  of 
land.  In  the  winter  of  1806-7,  Mr.  Stephenson  having 
gone  to  the  West  Indies  on  business,  his  wife  invited 
her  brother  Stephen  and  his  wife  to  spend  the  winter  at 
her  house,  which  they  did ;  and  there  Henry  Wadsworth 
Longfellow  was  born,  Feb.  27,  1807.1  He  was  named 
from  his  uncle,  Lieut.  Henry  Wadsworth  of  the  United 
States  navy,  who  lost  his  life  at  Tripoli  on  the  night 
of  Sept.  4,  1804,  in  a  gallant  attempt  to  destroy  the 
enemy's  flotilla  by  a  fire-ship. 

In  the  spring  of  1807  Gen.  Peleg  Wadsworth,  the 
maternal  grandfather  of  the  future  poet,  removed  to 
Hiram  on  the  Saco  River  in  order  to  occupy  and  im 
prove  seventy-five  hundred  acres  of  wild  land  granted 
him  in  consideration  of  his  military  services.  Ac 
cordingly  Stephen  Longfellow  took  up  his  residence 
in  the  Wadsworth  house  at  Portland,  and  made  it 
thenceforth  his  home.  This  venerable  brick  building  is 
still  standing,  and,  together  with  the  Stephenson  house 
where  the  poet  was  born,  attracts  the  attention  of  most 
visitors  to  the  city.  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 
was  the  second  son,  the  first  being  named  Stephen. 
Besides  these  there  were  afterwards  born  two  other 
sons,  Alexander  Wadsworth  and  Samuel,  and  four 
daughters,  Elizabeth,  Anne,  Mary,  and  Ellen.  The  old 
Wadsworth  (or  Longfellow)  house  on  Congress  Street 
is  now  occupied  by  the  poet's  sister,  Mrs.  Anne  L. 
Pierce,  and  contains  many  interesting  relics  of  the 
Longfellow  family.  The  Stephenson  house  (the  poet's 
birthplace)  is  also  still  standing  on  its  original  site,  cor 
ner  of  Fore  and  Hancock  Streets.  It  is  now  used  as 
a  tenement-house. 

1  It  is  a  fact  not  generally  known,  that  the  poet  Nathaniel  Farkei 
Willis  was  also  born  in  Portland  in  this  same  year. 


BY  FIELD   PEOPLE.  15 

Before  passing  on  to  speak  of  Gen.  Peleg  Wadsworth 
and  the  other  maternal  ancestors  of  the  poet,  let  us 
return  for  a  moment  to  speak  of  the  By  field  Longfellows 
in  Newbury,  Mass.  Byfield  is  the  original  "home- 
riest "  of  the  family.  It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  the 
families  of  the  two  poets,  Whittier  and  Longfellow, 
should  have  originated  in  the  same  neighborhood.  The 
Longfellow  homestead  in  Byfield  is  only  about  five 
miles  distant  from  the  old  Whittier  homestead  in  East 
Haverhill.  Near  Byfield  were  born  Cornelius  Conway 
Felton,  president  of  Harvard  University ;  Professor 
Parker  Cleaveland,  Judge  Tenney  of  Maine,  the  poet 
Albert  Pike,  and  Chief  Justice  Parsons.  The  Byfield 
Longfellows  are  prominent  in  local  politics.  One  of 
them,  Joseph,  who  is  quite  a  wit,  says  that  when  he  was 
a  young  man  he  was  ashamed  of  his  name,  as  he  was 
literally  a  Long-fellow.  But  when  Henry  Wadsworth 
became  famous,  and  people  asked  him  if  he  were  a 
kinsman  of  his,  he  became  proud  of  the  name. 

In  February,  1882,  Mr.  Horace  F.  Longfellow  of  By- 
field  wrote  to  Mr.  S.  T.  Pickard,  one  of  the  editors  of 
"  The  Portland  Transcript,"  the  following  letter,  de 
scriptive  of  the  old  homestead :  - 

DEAR  SIR,  —  At  the  request  of  my  father,  Joseph  Long 
fellow,  I  answer  yours  of  the  14th  in  regard  to  the  old  Long 
fellow  house  at  Byfield,  Mass.  It  was  probably  built  by 
William  Longfellow,  about  1676,  at  or  about  the  time  of  his 
marriage  with  Anne  Sewall.  The  location  of  the  house  is 
unsurpassed.  It  is  situated  on  a  sightly  eminence  at  the 
very  head  of  tide-water  on  the  river  Parker,  the  sparkle  of 
whose  waters,  as  they  go  tumbling  over  the  falls,  adds  a  pic- 
turesqueness  to  the  natural  beauty  of  the  scenery  that  lies 
dpread  out  on  either  hand,  — hill  and  dale,  forest  and  field, 


16  HENET  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

the  outgoing  or  incoming  tide.  Nature  was  lavish  here; 
and  young  Longfellow,  appreciating  it  all,  erected  the  old 
house  to  which  he  took  his  young  bride.  It  still  stands,  al 
though  two  centuries  and  more  have  passed  since  its  oaken 
frame  was  put  together.  It  has  not  been  occupied  for 
twenty-odd  years,  and,  of  course,  is  in  a  dilapidated  con 
dition.  I  was  born  under  the  old  roof -tree  myself ;  and  so 
were  my  father,  grandfather,  great-grandfather,  and  great- 
great-grandfather  (son  of  William)  before  me.  The  large 
chimney  was  taken  down  years  ago ;  a  part  of  the  house 
itself  has  been  removed ;  but 

"  The  scenes  of  my  childhood  are  brought  fresh  to  my  mind," 

and  I  can  see  the  old  weather-beaten  house,  with  its  rear  roof 
descending  nearly  to  the  ground,  the  long  kitchen  with  its 
low  ceiling  and  wide  fireplace,  the  big  brick  oven  in  which 
were  baked  the  Thanksgiving  pies  and  puddings  (I  can  taste 
them  now),  the  big  "  best  room,"  the  winding  stairs,  the  old 
spinning-wheel  in  the  attic,  the  well-curb  and  its  long  sweep 
at  the  end  of  the  house,  in  front  the  granite  horse-block,  and 
the  large  elm  spreading  over  all.  The  old  elm  still  lives,  but 
is  feeling  the  effects  of  age.  The  old  elm  and  the  house  will 
end  their  existence  together,  and  soon. 
Very  truly, 

HORACE  F.  LONGFELLOW. 

HIS  MATERNAL  ANCESTORS. 

Gen.  Peleg  Wadsworth,  the  maternal  grandfather  of 
the  poet,  was  the  son  of  Deacon  Peleg  Wadsworth  of 
Duxbury,  Mass.,  and  was  fifth  in  descent  from  Chris 
topher  Wadsworth,  who  came  from  England  and  settled 
in  Duxbury  previous  to  1632.  Peleg  Wadsworth,  jun., 
was  born  at  Duxbury  in  1748,  and  graduated  at  Har 
vard  College  in  1769.  In  1772  he  married  Elizabeth 
Bartlett  of  Plymouth,  Mass.  They  had  ten  children/ 


THE    BIRTHPLACE   OF   LONGFELLOW, 

CORNER  OF  FORE  AND  HANCOCK  STREETS,  PORTLAND,  MAINE. 


18  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

one  of  whom  was  Zilpah,  the  mother  of  the  poet. 
Zilpah  inherited  the  blood  of  four  or  five  of  the  "  May 
flower  "  Pilgrims,  including  Elder  Brewster  and  Capt. 
John  Alden,  immortalized  in  the  "  Courtship  of  Miles 
Standish."  Gen.  Peleg  Wadsworth  served  with  great 
distinction  in  the  Revolutionary  war.  He  was  second 
in  command  in  the  ill-fated  expedition  of  1779  against 
the  British  at  Castine,  Me.,  on  Penobscot  Bay;  and 
the  next  year,  while  in  command  on  the  coast,  with 
headquarters  at  Camden,  a  town  situated  on  the  same 
bay,  he  was  captured  by  the  British,  and  imprisoned  in 
the  fort  at  Castine.  After  four  months'  imprisonment 
he  made  his  escape  in  the  following  manner :  — 

"  Major  Burton,"  says  the  Hon.  William  Gould,  "  a 
resident  of  St.  George's  River,  who  had  served  the 
previous  summer  under  Gen.  Wadsworth,  was  a  pris 
oner  in  the  same  room  with  him.  After  a  long  prepa 
ration,  and  after  obtaining  a  gimlet  from  the  fort 
barber,  they  made  their  escape  on  the  night  of  the 
18th  of  June,  1781,  by  passing  through  an  opening  pre 
viously  and  laboriously  made  in  the  board  ceiling  with 
the  gimlet,  the  marks  of  which  were  filled  with  bread. 
They  adroitly  evaded  the  sentinels,  but  got  separated 
in  the  darkness,  both,  however,  getting  off  safely. 
They  kept  much  in  the  shoal- water  of  the  shores,  to 
prevent  being  tracked  by  the  bloodhounds  which  were 
kept  at  the  fort  for  that  purpose.  The  two  friends 
came  accidentally  together  on  the  next  day.  Major 
Burton  dropped  a  glove  in  the  darkness,  which  pointed 
out  to  their  pursuers  the  route  they  had  taken  on 
leaving  the  fort.  They,  however,  found  a  canoe,  got 
across  the  river,  and  pursued  their  course  through  the 
woods  by  a  pocket-compass  to  the  settlements,  and  were 
assisted  to  Thomaston,  after  much  suffering." 


THE  PORTLAND   OF  THE  POET'S  BOYHOOD.      19 

The  appearance  of  Gen.  Wads  worth  after  the  close  of 
the  Revolutionary  war  is  thus  described  by  the  mothei 
of  the  poet  Longfellow :  — 

1  'Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  my  father's  picture  as  if 
was  when  we  came  to  this  town  after  the  war  of  the  Revo 
lution,  in  1784.  Imagine  to  yourself  a  man  of  middle  size, 
well  proportioned,  with  a  military  air,  and  who  carried  him 
self  so  truly  that  many  thought  him  tall.  His  dress,  a  bright 
scarlet  coat,  buff  small-clothes  and  vest,  full  ruffled  bosom, 
ruffles  over  the  hands,  white  stockings,  shoes  with  silver 
buckles,  white  cravat  bow  in  front ;  hair  well  powdered,  and 
tied  behind  in  a  club,  so  called.  ...  Of  his  character  other? 
may  speak ;  but  I  cannot  forbear  to  claim  for  him  an  un 
common  share  of  benevolence  and  kind  feeling. 

"Z.  W.  L 

"  JANUARY,  1848." 

It  was  the  son  of  the  Gen.  Wads  worth  described  in 
this  letter  who  perished  at  Tripoli,  and  from  whom  the 
poet  Longfellow  received  his  baptismal  name. 

From  such  noble  ancestors  descended,  and  in  such 
sternly  religious  communities  educated,  the  poet  Long 
fellow  grew  up.  From  such  a  stem  sprang  the  beautiful 
blossom  of  his  song. 

THE  PORTLAND  OF  THE  POET'S  BOYHOOD. 

But  an  account  of  the  boyhood  of  Longfellow  would 
be  incomplete  without  a  few  more  picturesque  details 
of  the  Portland  of  that  time.  It  has  had  its  eras  of 
great  commercial  prosperity,  as,  for  instance,  during 
the  last  decade  of  the  preceding  century.  At  present  it 
is  a  flourishing  seaport  city,  beautifully  situated  on  the 
broad  Casco  Bay,  with  its  quiet  waters  and  numerous 
beautiful  islands.  Landward  the  landscape  stretches 
away  for  eighty  miles  to  the  White  Mountains,  with 


20  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Mount  Washington  indistinctly  visible  on  the  far  hori 
zon.  The  town,  as  it  was  in  Longfellow's  boyhood,  is 
thus  described  by  Mr.  Edward  Henry  El  well :  "  It  lay  on 
the  narrow  peninsula,  or  Neck,  in  the  depression  between 
the  two  hills  which  mark  its  extremities,  —  Munjoy 
and  Bramhall.  In  a  square  house,  standing  on  the  one 
hand  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  spot  where  the  first 
settler  landed  and  built  his  cabin  in  1632,  and  on  the 
other  not  much  farther  from  the  site  of  old  Fort  Loyal, 
our  poet  was  born.  ...  It  was  a  pleasant  site,  not  then, 
as  now,  hemmed  in  by  new-made  land  encroaching  on 
the  sea.  It  looked  out  on  the  waters  of  our  beautiful 
bay,  commanding  a  view  of  those 

— '  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams/ 

Near  by  was  the  beach,  the  scene  of  many  a  baptism 
on  '  the  Lord's  day.'  " 

"  On  Indian  Point,  where  the  Grand  Trunk  bridge 
leaves  the  hill,  stood  seven  or  eight  lofty  ancient  pine- 
trees,  and  in  the  high  branches  the  fish-hawks  were 
wont  to  build  their  nests.  The  boys  went  a-gunning 
4  back  of  the  Neck,'  and  shot  plovers  and  curlews  and 
sand-birds,  which  visited  the  shore  in  great  numbers." 

"  With  the  revival  of  commerce,  after  the  war,  trade 
with  the  West  India  Islands  sprang  up,  and  low-decked 
brigs  carried  out  cargoes  of  lumber  and  dried  fish, 
bringing  back  sugar,  rum,  and  molasses.  This  trade 
made  lively  scenes  on  Long  Wharf  and  Portland  Pier. 
From  lack  of  system,  and  the  appliances  of  steam, 
every  thing  was  then  done  with  great  noise  and  bustle, 
and  by  main  strength.  The  discharging  of  a  cargo  of 
molasses  set  the  town  in  an  uproar.  The  wharves  re- 


THE  PORTLAND  OF  THE  POET'S  BOYHOOD.      21 

sounded  with  the  songs  of  the  negro  stevedores  hoist 
ing  the  hogsheads  from  the  hold  without  the  aid  of  a 
winch ;  the  long  trucks,  with  heavy  loads,  were  tugged 
by  straining  horses,  under  the  whips  and  loud  cries  of 
the  truckmen.  Liquor  was  lavishly  supplied  to  labor 
ing  men,  and  it  made  them  turbulent  and  uproarious. 
Adding  to  the  busy  tumult  were  the  teams  coming  into 
town  by  the  two  principal  avenues,  —  over  Deering's 
Bridge  and  up  Green  Street,  or  over  BramhaU's  Hill  by 
way  of  Horse  Tavern,  —  bringing  charcoal  from  Water- 
borough,  shooks  from  Fryeburg,  Hiram,  and  Baldwin, 
hoop-poles,  heading,  cord-wood,  and  screwed  hay ;  and 
the  Vermonters,  in  their  blue  woollen  frocks,  bringing 
in  their  red  pungs  round  hogs,  butter,  and  cheese." 

Rev.  Elijah  Kellogg,  jun.,  gives  a  lively  picture  of 
Portland  at  this  time,  on  a  winter  morning :  "  Then 
you  might  have  seen  lively  times.  A  string  of  board- 
teams  from  George  Libby's  to  Portland  Pier;  sleds 
growling;  surveyors  running  about  like  madmen,  a 
shingle  in  one  hand  and  a  rule-staff  in  the  other ; 
cattle  white  with  frost,  and  their  nostrils  hung  with 
icicles;  teamsters  screaming  and  hallooing;  Herrick's 
tavern,  and  all  the  shops  in  Huckler's  Row,  lighted  up, 
and  the  loggerheads  hot  to  give  customers  their  morn 
ing  dram." 

It  is  with  such  scenes  as  these  rising  in  his  memory 
that  Longfellow  sings,  in  his  poem  entitled 

MY  LOST  YOUTH. 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free ; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 

And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 


22  HENRY   WADSWOBTH  LONGFELLOW. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill ; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat,  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
et  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide  1 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

"  Portland  was  a  lumber-port,  driving  a  brisk  little 
trade  with  more  tumult  and  hurrah  than  now  accom 
panies  the  transaction  of  ten  times  the  amount  of  busi 
ness  then  done.  In  addition  to  its  lumber-trade  it  had 
its  distilleries,  its  tanneries,  its  rope-walks,  and  its  pot 
tery,  —  the  latter  two  of  which  so  impressed  themselves 
upon  the  memory  of  the  boy  Longfellow  that  in  after- 
years  they  suggested  his  poems,  4  The  Ropewalk '  and 
4  Ke*ramos,'  the  song  of  the  potter.1  Men  now  living, 

1  Mr.  H.  H.  Clark,  who,  as  the  proof-reader  at  the  University  Press, 
read  the  proof  of  "  K^ramos,"  says  that  Mr.  Longfellow  spoke  to  him 
of  having  visited  the  old  potter  at  his  wheel  under  the  hill,  and  of  see 
ing  him  go  to  aud  fro  under  the  branches  of  the  trees,  as  described 
in  the  first  stanza  of  the  poem. 


THE  PORTLAND   OF  THE  POET'S  BOYHOOD.      23 

going  back  in  memory  to  those  bustling  days,  will  tell 
you  those  were  the  times  when  business  was  lively,  and 
think  it  but  a  dull  town  now,  though  with  five  times 
the  population  and  many  times  the  amount  of  business." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  intellectual  life  in  the  town. 
In  1790  the  Rev.  Dr.  Samuel  Deane  published  his 
New-England  Farmer,  or  Georgical  Dictionary,  which 
was  for  a  long  time  a  standard  work  on  matters  of  agri 
culture.  In  1816  Enoch  Lincoln  of  Portland  published 
his  poem,  The  Village,  containing  over  two  thousand 
lines,  and  "remarkable  for  its  advanced  moral  senti 
ment,  anticipating  many  of  the  reforms  of  our  day,  as 
well  as  for  its  erudition  and  its  evenly  sustained  poetical 
merit." 

Of  the  social  life  of  the  period,  Mr.  Elwell  thus 
speaks :  — 

"  In  social  life  the  marked  distinctions  of  the  ante- 
Revolutionary  period  are  giving  way  under  the  influence 
of  our  democratic  institutions.  Cocked  hats,  bush  wigs, 
and  knee-breeches  are  passing  out,  and  pantaloons  have 
come  in.  Old  men  still  wear  queues  and  spencers,  and 
disport  their  shrunken  shanks  in  silk  stockings.  A 
homely  style  of  speech  prevails  among  the  common  peo 
ple.  Old  men  are  'Daddies,'  old  ladies  are  'Marms,' 
ship-masters  are  '  Skippers,'  and  school-teachers  are 
4  Masters.'  There  are  no  stoves,  and  open  fires  and 
brick  ovens  are  in  universal  use.  The  fire  is  raked  up 
at  night,  and  rekindled  in  the  morning  by  the  use  of 
flint,  steel,  and  tinder-box.  Nearly  every  house  has 
its  barn,  in  which  is  kept  the  cow,  pastured  during  the 
day  on  Munjoy.  The  boys  go  after  the  cows  at  nightfall, 
driving  them  home  through  the  streets.  There  are  few 
private  carriages  kept  in  town,  and  fewer  public  vehi- 


24  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

cleg.  When,  in  1824,  Gen.  Lafayette  visits  the  town, 
and  Gov.  Parris  gives  a  ball  in  his  honor,  at  his  resi 
dence  on  Bridge  Street,  —  the  site  of  which  is  now 
covered  by  the  beautiful  lawn  attached  to  the  residence 
of  H.  P.  Storer,  Esq.,  — a  storm  coming  up  prevents  the 
attendance  of  a  great  part  of  the  company  invited, 
because  of  the  distance  out  of  town  and  the  scarcity  of 
carriages.  The  coin  in  circulation  is  chiefly  Spanish 
dollars,  halves,  quarters,  pistareens,  eighths,  and  six 
teenths,  the  last  two  of  which  are  known  as  ninepence 
and  fourpence  'alfpennies.  Federal  money  is  so  little 
recognized  that  prices  are  still  reckoned  in  shillings  and 
pence,  —  two-and-six,  three-and-ninepence,  seven-and- 
sixpence.  It  is  a  journey  of  two  days,  by  the  accom 
modation  stage,  to  Boston,  costing  eight  to  ten  dollars. 
If  you  go  by  the  mail-stage  you  may  be  bounced  through, 
with  aching  bones,  in  the  hours  between  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning  and  ten  at  night.  Or  you  may  take  a 
coaster,  and  perhaps  be  a  week  on  the  passage.  The  old 
Portland  Gazette  and  The  Eastern  Argus  come  out 
once  a  week,  and  the  town-crier  supplies  the  place  of 
the  daily  newspaper.  There  are  few  amusements.  The 
atrical  performances  have  been  voted  down  in  town- 
meeting,  and  prohibited  under  heavy  penalties ;  but  by 
1820  the  poor  players  venture  to  make  an  occasional 
appearance,  and  set  up  their  scenery  in  Union  Hall. 
It  is  not  until  1830  that  a  theatre  is  built,  and  it  is  soon 
converted  into  a  church.  In  the  summer  there  are 
excursions  by  sailing-boats  to  the  islands,  with  an  oc 
casional  capsize  and  loss  of  life.  In  the  winter,  merry 
sleighing  parties  drive  out  to  4  Broad's'  for  a  dance 
and  a  supper.  These  are  merry  times,  especially  if  the 
party  is  snowed  up,  and  compelled  to  remain  over  night. 


THE  POET'S  BOYHOOD.  25 

Flip  and  punch  flow  freely,  and  sobriety  is  the  exception 
rather  than  the  rule." 

THE  POET'S  BOYHOOD. 

Of  Mr.  Longfellow's  early  boyhood  not  many  details 
are  known.  He  manifested  a  turn  for  poetry  and  poeti 
cal  composition  at  a  very  early  age.  It  has  been  several 
times  stated  that  the  first  poem  of  his,  known  to  be 
preserved  in  manuscript,  is  that  called  "Venice,  an 
Italian  Song,"  and  dated  Portland  Academy,  March  17, 
1820,  when  he  was  hardly  thirteen.  But  the  writer  is 
informed  by  Col.  Thomas  Weritworth  Higginson  that 
this  is  a  mistake.  The  poem  is  by  Samuel  Rogers,  and 
may  be  found  in  his  printed  works.  The  poem  had  only 
been  copied  by  the  boy-poet  as  an  exercise  in  penman 
ship.  His  first  published  poem  was  entitled  "  Lovell's 
Fight,"1  printed  in  the  Poet's  Corner  of  a  Portland 
paper  previous  to  his  entering  college.  Other  poems  of 
his  also  appeared  in  the  local  papers  at  about  the  same 
time. 

The  first  school  that  young  Longfellow  attended  was 
kept  by  "  Marm  Fellows,"  in  a  small  brick  schoolhouse 
on  Spring  Street.  Later  he  went  to  the  town  school  on 
Love  Lane,  now  Center  Street ;  and  soon  after,  to  the 
private  school  of  Nathaniel  H.  Carter,  in  a  little  one- 
story  house  on  the  west  side  of  Preble  Street,  now  Con 
gress.  Afterward  he  attended  the  Portland  Academy, 
under  the  same  master,  and  also  under  the  mastership 
of  Bezaleel  Cushman,  who  had  Jacob  Abbott  as  one  of 

1  The  scene  of  Lovell's  fight  (or  "  Lovewell  "  as  it  used  to  he  called) 
was  but  a  few  miles  from  Hiram.  Here,  at  the  Wadsworth  homestead, 
the  boy  Longfellow  spent  many  of  his  summers.  It  is  known  that  the 
few  of  Lovell's  men  who  escaped  returned  down  the  road  to  Ossipee 
past  the  old  Wadsworth  house- 


26  HENEY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

his  assistants.  Here  he  fitted  for  college ;  and  at  the 
age  of  fourteen,  in  the  year  1821,  he  entered  Bowdoin 
College  at  Brunswick,  Me.,  in  company  with  his  elder 
brother  Stephen. 

AT  BOWDOIN  COLLEGE. 

The  poet  once  told  Mr.  John  Langdon  Sibley,  libra 
rian  emeritus  of  Harvard  College,  that,  if  his  father  had 
not  been  a  trustee  of  Bowdoin,  he  would  have  been 
sent  to  Harvard  College,  and  that  he  would  have  then 
been  in  Mr.  Sibley's  class. 

The  Bowdoin  class  contained  sons  of  some  of  the  first 
families  of  New  England.  Among  Longfellow's  class 
mates  were  such  young  men  as  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 
George  B.  Cheever,  John  S.  C.  Abbott,  and  others. 
One  of  his  classmates,  the  Rev.  David  Shepley,  D.D., 
says  of  him,  "  He  gave  diligent  heed  to  all  departments 
of  study  in  the  prescribed  course,  and  excelled  in  all, 
while  his  enthusiasm  moved  in  the  direction  it  has 
taken  in  subsequent  life.  His  themes,  felicitous  trans 
lations  of  Horace,  and  occasional  contributions  to  the 
press,  drew  marked  attention  to  him,  and  led  to  the 
expectation  that  his  would  be  an  honorable  career." 
The  Hon.  J.  W.  Bradbury,  another  classmate,  describes 
him  as  having  a  "  slight,  erect  figure,  delicate  complex 
ion,  and  an  intelligent  expression  of  countenance.  He 
was  always  a  gentleman  in  his  deportment,  and  a  model 
in  his  character  and  habits."  Professor  A.  S.  Packard, 
D.D.,  of  Bowdoin  College,  remembers  Longfellow  as  "an 
attractive  youth,  with  auburn  locks,  clear,  fresh,  bloom 
ing  complexion,  and,  as  might  be  expected,  of  well-bred 
manners  and  bearing." 

While  in  college  he  wrote  a  number  of  poems,  many 


AT  BOWDOIN  COLLEGE.  27 

of  which  were  first  published  in  The  United-States 
Literary  Gazette,  and  thence  found  their  way  into  the 
daily  and  weekly  papers  of  the  country.  This  periodical, 
published  at  New  York  and  Boston  simultaneously,  was 
much  in  favor  with  the  poets  of  that  day.  It  was 
founded  by  the  late  Theophilus  Parsons ;  but  at  the 
time  Longfellow  sent  in  his  poems  it  was  edited  by 
James  Gordon  Carter  of  Boston  (Harvard,  1820),  well 
known  from  his  relation  to  the  public  schools.  Long 
fellow's  poems  were  probably  anonymous;  for  once, 
when  Professor  Packard  was  spending  an  evening  with 
Mr.  Carter  in  Boston,  the  latter  asked  him  who  that 
young  man  was  at  Bowdoin  who  sent  him  such  fine 
poetry.  Professor  Packard  thinks  Longfellow  was  at 
this  time  a  junior  in  college. 

Longfellow  graduated  second  in  a  class  of  thirty-seven, 
Joseph  S.  Little  of  Portland  being  first.  Professor 
Packard  says :  "Of  his  standing  as  a  scholar  in  college, 
one  may  judge  from  his  assignment  at  Commencement 
of  an  English  oration,  when  fewer  parts  of  that  rank 
were  given  than  of  late  years.  His  was  the  first  claim 
to  the  poem ;  but,  as  the  poem  had  no  definite  rank,  it 
was  thought  due  to  him,  since  his  scholarship  bore  a 
high  mark,  that  he  should  receive  an  appointment 
which  placed  his  scholarship  beyond  question."  His 
English  oration  had  for  its  subject,  "  Our  Native 
Writers."  "  Chatterton  and  his  Poems  "  had  been  as 
signed  him  as  a  subject,  but  was  afterwards  changed, 
and  the  change  noted  in  ink  on  the  programmes.  The 
class  poem  was  read  by  Frederic  Mellen.  During  the 
first  half  of  his  senior  year,  Longfellow  read  the  poem 
before  the  Peucinian  Literary  Society  of  the  college 
Hawthorne  embodied  some  features  of  Bowdoin  Col 
lege  life  in  his  suppressed  novel,  "  Fanshawe." 


28  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

It  is  now  known  that  Longfellow  received  one  dollar 
each  for  his  poems  contributed  to  The  Literary  Ga 
zette,  while  William  Cullen  Bryant  received  two  dollars 
a  poem,  a  sum  fixed  by  himself.1  For  Sandalphon, 
the  poet  received  by  way  of  payment  a  year's  subscrip 
tion  to  the  paper  in  which  it  was  published. 

In  1826,  the  year  after  Longfellow  graduated,  there 
was  published  a  little  volume  entitled  Miscellaneous 
Poems,  selected  from  the  United-States  Literary  Ga 
zette.  The  contributors  to  it  were  Bryant,  Long 
fellow,  Mellen,  Percival,  Dawes,  and  Jones.  A  writer 
in  the  New- York  Evening  Post,  understood  to  be  Col. 
Higginson,  remarks  that  this  volume  "  offered  a  curious 
contrast  to  that  equally  characteristic  volume  of  1794, 
The  Columbian  Muse,  whose  poets  were  Barlow, 
Trumbull,  Freneau,  Dwight,  Humphreys,  and  a  few 
others ;  not  a  single  poem  or  poet  being  held  in  com 
mon  by  the  two  collections."  In  the  Gazette  collec 
tion  were  fourteen  of  Longfellow's  poems,  all  written 
before  he  was  nineteen.  Among  them  were  The  Hymn 
of  the  Moravian  Nuns,  and  The  Rivulet:  these  and 
four  others  are  retained  in  the  collected  works  of  the 
poet  to  this  day.2 

Longfellow  at  first  began  the  study  of  law  in  his 
father's  office  in  Portland,  but  took  little  interest  in  his 
studies.  In  1826  he  received  an  invitation  to  fill,  at 
Bowdoin  College,  a  chair  which  had  been  almost  cre 
ated  for  him;  namely,  a  professorship  of  modern  lan 
guages  and  literature.  The  establishment  of  such  a 

1  See  the  Reminiscences  of  Gen.  James  Grant  Wilson,  p. 215  of  thia 
volume. 

2  For  Mr.  Longfellow's  juvenile    poems  never   published  in  thia 
country  in  book  form,  see  p.  335,  where  all  of  them  will  be  found  in  full, 
with  interesting  details  concerning  them. 


AT  BOWDOIN  COLLEGE.  29 

chair  as  this  was  considered  at  that  time  to  be  quite 
an  innovation ;  the  languages  and  literatures  of  Greece 
and  Rome  having  been  considered,  from  time  imme 
morial,  as  entirely  sufficient  for  the  culture  and  disci 
pline  of  the  young  mind.  Mrs.  Bowdoin  had,  however, 
some  years  before,  given  one  thousand  dollars  as  the 
beginning  of  a  fund  for  such  a  chair.  Mr.  Longfellow, 
when  appointed,  was  only  nineteen  years  of  age  ;  and  he 
at  once  set  off  for  Europe,  visiting  and  studying  for 
nearly  four  years  in  Spain,  France,  Italy,  and  Germany, 
in  order  to  prepare  himself  for  his  duties.  In  Pierce's 
Memoir  and  Letters  of  Charles  Sumner  is  recorded 
the  fact  that  Longfellow  met  Sumner  at  Marseilles  in 
1827,  and  they  journeyed  together  to  Rome.  Sumner 
afterwards  became  distantly  connected  with  Longfellow 
through  Harriet  Coffin  Sumner,  the  second  wife  of 
Nathan  Appleton  of  Boston,  Mr.  Longfellow's  second 
wife  being  a  daughter  of  Nathan  Appleton  by  his  first 
wife. 

In  1829  he  returned  to  America,  and  entered  upon 
his  duties  at  Bowdoin  College.  Such  a  rare  oppor 
tunity  for  future  success  must  have  been  appreciated 
by  him.  The  tradition  is,  that  this  appointment  was 
given  to  Longfellow  as  a  result  of  the  impression  made 
upon  a  member  of  the  college  examining  committee  by 
his  translation  of  one  of  Horace's  odes.  He  entered 
upon  his  professional  duties  with  zeal  and  fidelity.  The 
department  was  a  new  one,  and  there  was  a  lack  of 
suitable  text-books.  Accordingly  he  prepared  "Ele 
ments  of  French  Grammar.  Translated  from  the 
French  of  C.  F.  L'Homond."  (Boston :  1830.)  "  Syl 
labus  de  la  Grammaire  Italienne."  (Boston:  1832.) 
"  Cours  de  la  Langue  Frangaise  "  (Boston :  1832),  in- 


30  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

eluding  (1)  "Le  Ministre  de  Wakefield "  and  (2) 
"  Proverbes  Dramatiques."  "  Saggi  de'  Novellieri  Ital 
ian!  d'  Ogni  Secolo :  Tratti  da'  piu  celebri  scrittori,  con 
brevi  notizie  intorno  alia  vita  di  ciascheduno."  (Bos 
ton:  1832.)  He  also  published  "Coplas  de  Manrique 
A  Translation  from  the  Spanish."  (Boston :  Allen  & 
Ticknor,  1833.)  Included  in  this  volume  are  transla 
tions  by  Mr.  Longfellow  of  sonnets  of  Lope  de  Vega 
and  others.  The  poem  was  prefaced  by  an  essay  on 
Spanish  Moral  and  Devotional  Poetry,  which  had  pre 
viously  appeared  in  The  North- American  Review,  xxxiv. 
277.  (For  a  complete  list  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  con 
tributions  to  The  North-American  Review,  see  the 
bibliography  appended  to  this  volume.)  George  Tick 
nor,  in  his  History  of  Spanish  Literature,  speaks  of  the 
translation  of  "  Coplas  "  as  "  a  beautiful  one."  This 
edition  is  now  very  rare.  Mr.  Thomas  Niles  (of  the  firm 
of  Roberts  Brothers),  the  Boston  publisher,  says  that 
when  he  first  went  into  the  book-trade,  many  years  ago, 
he  found  in  his  stock  one  hundred  and  fifty  copies  of 
"  Coplas  de  Manrique."  He  does  not  remember  what 
became  of  these  books,  but  thinks  they  went  to  the 
paper-mill,  being  then  unsalable.  They  would  now, 
probably,  be  worth  their  weight  in  gold.  The  book 
was  a  thin  duodecimo,  with  Longfellow's  name  as  Bow- 
doin  professor  on  the  title-page.  The  translation  was 
afterwards  slightly  altered  by  the  poet.  The  historian 
Prescott  said  of  it,  "Mr.  Longfellow's  version  is  well 
calculated  to  give  the  English  reader  a  correct  notion 
of  the  Castilian  bard,  and,  of  course,  a  very  exaggerated 
one  of  the  literary  culture  of  the  age."  There  was  a 
previous  version  of  the  "  Coplas "  by  Bo  wring,  but 
Longfellow's  was  considered  its  superior. 


AT  BOWDOIN  COLLEGE.  31 

At  the  Bowdoin  College  commencement,  in  1832, 
Mr.  Longfellow  delivered  the  poem  before  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Society.  In  1833  also  appeared  the  first  two 
numbers  of  Outre-Mer;  or,  A  Pilgrimage  to  the  Old 
World  by  an  American  (Hilliard,  Gray,  &  Co.,  Bos 
ton),  and  two  years  later  the  whole  work  was  published 
by  Harper  &  Brothers  of  New- York  City;  Mr.  Long 
fellow  selling  it  to  them  for  five  hundred  dollars.  It  is 
written  in  a  most  charming  vein.  The  light  and  lambent 
humor  is  like  that  of  Irving  or  Lamb  or  Sterne.  There 
is  a  buoyancy  in  the  style  like  that  of  the  blue  sky, 
and  a  freshness  as  of  clover  or  dew.  The  work  is 
picturesque,  antiquarian;  golden  and  mellow  as  the 
shield  of  its  Lion  d' Or,  full  of  quiet  causerie  about 
mediaeval  legends,  trouveres,  and  old  chansons.  Quaint 
characters  are  depicted ;  and  the  beautiful  scenes  of 
classic  Italy,  sunburnt  Spain,  and  vine-covered  France 
are  lovingly  portrayed.  There  is  a  chapter  on  "  Old 
Spanish  Ballads,"  and  in  the  second  volume  appears  the 
translation  of  the  stanzas  of  Don  Jorge  Manrique  on 
the  death  of  his  father  Don  Rodrigo. 

The  title  of  the  book  was  probably  suggested  by 
Thibaut,  who  in  his  "  Roi  de  Navarre  "  says,  — 

"  Si  j'ai  long  terns  it&  en  Romanie, 
Et  outre-mer  fait  mon  pelerinage." 

On  the  title-page  appears  this  quotation  from  old 
Sir  John  Maundeville  :  — 

"  I  have  passed  manye  landes  and  manye  yles  and 
contrees,  and  cherched  manye  fulle  straunge  places,  and 
have  ben  in  manye  a  fulle  gode  honourable  companye. 
Now  I  am  comen  home  to  reste.  And  thus  recordynge 
the  tyme  passed,  I  have  fulfilled  these  thynges  and  putte 


32  HENRY    WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

hem  wry  ten  in  this  boke,  as  it  woulde  come  into  my 
mynde." 

To  the  Epistle  Dedicatory  is  prefixed  this  stanza 
from  Hurdis :  — 

"  The  cheerful  breeze  sets  fair :  we  fill  our  sail, 
And  scud  before  it.     When  the  critic  starts, 
And  angrily  unties  his  bags  of  wind, 
Then  we  lay  to,  and  let  the  blast  go  by/' 

In  the  course  of  his  remarks  in  the  Epistle  Dedica 
tory  the  author  says :  — 

"  Besides,  what  perils  await  the  adventurous  author 
who  launches  forth  into  the  uncertain  current  of  public 
favor  in  so  frail  a  bark  as  this !  The  very  rocking  of 
the  tide  may  overset  him ;  or  peradventure  some  free- 
booting  critic,  prowling  about  the  great  ocean  of  let 
ters,  may  descry  his  strange  colors,  hail  him  through 
a  gray  goose-quill,  and  perhaps  sink  him  without  more 
ado." 

The  book  is  conceived  (in  a  playful  and  merry  vein) 
to  be  a  series  of  tales  told  by  a  pilgrim,  —  like  those 
told  by  palmers  in  baronial  castles  of  old.  The  first 
chapter  begins  thus :  — 

" '  Lystenyth,  ye  godely  gentylmen,  and  all  that  ben 
hereyn  ! '  I  am  a  pilgrim  benighted  on  my  way,  and 
crave  a  shelter  till  the  storm  is  over,  and  a  seat  by  the 
fireside  in  this  honorable  company.  As  a  stranger  I 
claim  this  courtesy  at  your  hands;  and  will  repay 
your  hospitable  welcome  with  tales  of  the  countries  I 
have  passed  through  in  my  pilgrimage.  ...  I  have 
traversed  France  from  Normandy  to  Navarre ;  smoked 
my  pipe  in  a  Flemish  inn  ;  floated  through  Holland  in 
a  Trekschuit ;  trimmed  my  midnight  lamp  in  a  Ger- 


AT  BOWDOIN  COLLEGE.  33 

man  university  ;  wandered  and  mused  amid  the  classic 
scenes  of  Italy  ;  and  listened  to  the  gay  guitar  and 
merry  Castanet  on  the  borders  of  the  blue  Guadal 
quivir." 

As  a  specimen  of  the  book,  take  this  description  of 
the  old  Norman  diligence  :  — 

"  It  was  one  of  those  ponderous  vehicles  which  totter 
slowly  along  the  paved  roads  of  France,  laboring  be 
neath  a  mountain  of  trunks  and  bales  of  all  descrip 
tions,  and,  like  the  Trojan  horse,  bearing  a  groaning 
multitude  within  it.  It  was  a  curious  and  cumbersome 
machine,  resembling  the  bodies  of  three  coaches  placed 
upon  one  carriage,  with  a  cabriolet  on  top  for  outside 
passengers.  On  the  panels  of  each  door  were  painted 
the  fleurs-de-lis  of  France  ;  and  upon  the  side  of  the 
coach,  emblazoned  in  gold  characters,  'Exploitation 
Crenerale  des  Messageries  Roy  ales  des  Diligences  pour  le 
Havre,  Rouen,  et  Paris.1 ' 

In  an  article  on  Longfellow  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly 
for  December,  1863,  George  William  Curtis  said  of 
Outre-Mer :  "  It  is  the  romance  of  the  Continent,  and 
not  that  of  England,  which  inspires  him.  It  is  the 
ruddy  light  upon  the  vines,  and  the  scraps  of  old  chan 
sons,  which  enliven  and  decorate  his  pilgrimage ;  and 
through  all  his  literary  life  they  have  not  lost  their 
fascination.  While  Irving  sketches 4  Rural  Life  in  Eng 
land,'  Longfellow  paints  '  The  Village  of  Auteuil ; ' 
Irving  gives  us  c  The  Boar's  Head  Tavern,'  and  Long 
fellow  4  The  Golden  Lion  Inn  ; '  Irving  draws  a  '  Royal 
Poet,'  Longfellow  discusses  '  The  Trouv&res  '  or  4  The 
Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain.'  .  .  .  Geoffrey  Crayon  is 
a  humorist,  while  the  Pilgrim  beyond  the  Sea  is  a  poet. 
The  one  looks  at  the  broad  aspects  of  English  life  with 
3 


34      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

the  shrewd  twinkling  eye  of  the  man  of  the  world : 
the  other  haunts  the  valley  of  the  Loire,  the  German 
street,  the  Spanish  inn,  with  the  kindling  fancy  of  the 
scholar  and  poet."  During  the  twenty  years  following 
the  publication  of  Outre-Mer,  seventy-five  hundred 
copies  were  sold. 

Under  the  title,  The  Schoolmaster,  Mr.  Longfellow 
began,  in  Buckingham's  New-England  Magazine,  the 
sketches  and  studies  which  he  afterwards  published 
with  the  title  Outre-Mer. 

To  the  Longfellow  number  of  The  Literary  World 
(Feb.  26,  1881)  Mr.  Horace  E.  Scudder  contributed 
a  pleasant  paper  in  which  he  compared  the  two  produc 
tions.  Mr,  Scudder's  paper  shall  here  be  given  entire, 
and  will  speak  for  itself :  — 

"  There  were  kings  before  Agamemnon ;  and  the 
reader  of  '  The  Atlantic '  to-day  will  find  that  his 
fathers  had  also  their  literary  magazines  —  of  somewhat 
precarious  existence,  to  be  sure,  but  containing  often 
papers  and  poems  which  have  passed  into  the  accepted 
literature  of  the  country.  The  New-England  Maga 
zine,  published  and  conducted  by  J.  T.  Buckingham 
and  his  son  until  the  son's  death,  and  after  that  by  the 
father  alone,  was  for  a  time  a  fair  representative  of  the 
culture  of  Boston.  The  contributions  were  rarely 
signed,  and  the  publisher  could  offer  only  very  diminu 
tive  golden  bait;  but,  besides  the  work  of  aspirants 
who  never  came  to  fame,  one  may  find  here  articles, 
sketches,  and  poems,  by  Everett,  Story,  Hillard, 
Hildreth,  Withington,  Dr.  Howe,  Dr.  Peabody,  Epe? 
Sargent,  Kolmes,  and  Longfellow.  It  was  in  this 
magazine,  the  reader  will  remember,  that  Dr.  Holmes 
published  a  trial  chapter  of  '  The  Autocrat ; '  but  so 


THE    SCHOOLMASTER.  35 

completely  had  the  title  disappeared  that  nobody  re 
membered  it  when  he  resumed  it  twenty-five  years 
afterward,  in  the  more  mature  wit  and  wisdom  which 
made  the  early  numbers  of  The  Atlantic  famous 
Many  of  his  bright  young  poems  appeared  here ;  and 
a  curious  experiment,  headed  *  Report  of  the  Editorial 
Department,'  and  signed  O.  W.  H.,  will  be  found  in 
the  number  for  January,  1833. 

"  Mr.  Longfellow's  contributions,  so  far  as  we  know, 
are  confined  to  a  series  of  sketches,  appearing  at  irregu 
lar  intervals,  which  interest  us  from  their  relation  to 
his  subsequent  acknowledged  work.  In  the  first  num 
ber  of  the  magazine,  that  for  July,  1831,  will  be  found 
among  the  original  papers  one  entitled  4The  School 
master,'  Chapter  I.,  and  having  all  the  air  of  being  the 
first  of  a  series.  A  motto  from  Franklin  stands  at  the 
head :  — 

" 4  My  character,  indeed,  I  would  favor  you  with,  but 
that  I  am  cautious  of  praising  myself,  lest  I  should  be 
told  my  trumpeter's  dead ;  and  I  cannot  find  in  my 
heart  at  present  to  say  any  thing  to  my  own  disad 
vantage.' 

"The  Schoolmaster  opens  with  a  half-confidential 
disclosure  to  the  reader.  It  is  written  in  the  first 
person :  — 

" '  I  am  a  schoolmaster  [it  begins]  in  the  little  vil 
lage  of  Sharon.  A  son  of  New  England,  I  have  been 
educated  in  all  her  feelings  and  prejudices.  To  her 
maternal  care  I  owe  the  little  that  is  good  within  me ; 
and  upon  her  bosom  I  hope  to  repose  hereafter  when 
my  worldly  task  is  done,  and  my  soul,  like  a  rejoicing 
schoolboy,  shall  close  its  weary  book,  and  burst  forth 
from  this  earthly  schoolhouse.  My  childhood  was 


36  HEflRY     WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

passed  at  my  native  village,  in  the  usual  amusements 
and  occupations  of  that  age  ;  but  as  I  grew  up  I  be 
came  satiated  with  the  monotony  of  my  life.  A  rest 
less  spirit  prompted  me  to  visit  foreign  countries.  I 
said,  with  the  cosmopolite,  "The  world  is  a  kind  of 
book  in  which  he  who  has  seen  his  own  country  only 
has  read  but  one  page."  Guided  by  this  feeling,  I  be 
came  a  traveller.  I  have  traversed  France  on  foot, 
smoked  my  pipe  in  a  Flemish  inn '  — 

"And  the  reader  who  has  read  thus  far  finds  the 
words  beginning  to  be  familiar.  He  turns  to  Outre- 
Mer,  and  discovers  the  same  passage  in  the  chapter 
headed  'The  Pilgrim  of  Outre-Mer.'  The  School 
master,  however,  immediately  recovers  its  own  separate 
character,  and  for  a  page  or  two  more  one  reads  of  the 
return  of  the  narrator  to  his  native  village,  and  thence 
forth  of  his  travels  by  memory. 

"In  September,  1831,  appeared  the  second  chapter  of 
The  Schoolmaster,  which  proves  to  be  substantially 
the  same  as  The  Norman  Diligence  in  4  Outre-Mer.' 
The  motto,  indeed,  is  that  which  in  the  book  precedes 
the  '  Journey  into  Spain,'  and  the  chapter  in  The 
Schoolmaster  is  longer.  The  slight  mention  of  the 
cabaret  in  Outre-Mer  is  an  abbreviation  of  a  fuller 
and  more  detailed  sketch  in  The  Schoolmaster,  where 
an  old  soldier  and  some  wagoners  have  a  half-oper 
atic  scene,  and  sing  an  apology  for  cider,  an  old 
French  song  of  the  fifteenth  century.  Both  the  French 
and  an  English  version  of  the  song  are  given ;  and  it  is 
a  little  curious,  that,  in  the  revised  edition  of  Poets 
and  Poetry  of  Europe,  Mr.  Longfellow  has  given 
Oliver  Basselin's  modernized  version  of  the  song  as 
translated  by  Oxenford,  but  says  nothing  of  his  own 
earlier  rendering. 


OUTRE-MER    AND    THE    SCHOOLMASTER.        37 

"  The  third  chapter  of  The  Schoolmaster,  published 
April,  1832,  is  '  The  Village  of  Auteuil ; '  and  one  or 
two  variations  are  interesting.  The  introductory  para 
graphs  in  Outre-Mer  are  new ;  and  a  happy  little  im 
provement  is  made,  when,  in  place  of  the  words  in  The 
Schoolmaster,  — 

"  *  1  took  up  my  abode  at  a  maison  de  santS ;  not  that 
I  was  a  valetudinarian,  but  because  I  there  found  society 
and  good  accommodations,'  — 

"  Outre-Mer  has,  — 

" '  Not  that  I  was  a  valetudinarian ;  but  because  I 
there  found  some  one  to  whom  I  could  whisper,  How 
sweet  is  solitude  ! ' 

"  Dr.  Dardonville  in  The  Schoolmaster  becomes 
Dentdelion  in  Outre-Mer,  and  some  details  are  given 
in  the  first  form  which  do  not  appear  in  the  second.  In 
the  '  Outre-Mer '  chapter,  on  the  other  hand,  the  account 
of  the  fSte  patronale  is  new.  It  would  seem  as  if  the 
author,  in  revising  his  chapters,  removed  them  a  little 
from  a  too  literal  transcript  of  his  note-book,  and  threw 
over  them  a  further  air  of  refinement  and  imagination. 

"In  July,  1832,  the  fourth  chapter  was  printed,  headed 
4  Recollections  of  the  Metropolis/  and  consisting  of  a 
stroll  through  Paris  with  reference  to  certain  historical 
sights.  The  fifth  chapter,  in  October  of  the  same  year, 
continues  this  imaginary  walk,  but  is  occupied  chiefly 
with  a  romantic  story  from  a  chronicle  of  the  time  of 
Charles  VI.  The  sixth  chapter,  in  February,  1833, 
resumes  the  walk,  interrupted  by  the  story,  and  brings 
the  reader  finally  to  the  gates  of  Pere  la  Chaise.  The 
reader  turns  over  the  numbers  afterward,  expecting  to 
find  the  chapter  so  headed  which  he  remembers  in 
Outre-Mer ;  but  he  discovers  that  The  Schoolmaster 


38  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

has  come  to  an  abrupt  close.  The  reason  appears  in 
the  publication,  this  year,  of  the  first  part  of  Outre- 
Mer,  containing,  as  we  have  shown,  material  used  in 
the  first  three  chapters  of  The  Schoolmaster.  Outre- 
Mer  appeared  at  first  with  no  name  attached,  but  it 
was  probably  tolerably  well  known  who  wrote  it ;  and 
when  the  second  part  appeared,  shortly  afterward,  Pro 
fessor  Longfellow's  name  was  openly  mentioned  with 
it.  It  is  a  little  odd,  however,  that,  in  the  book-notices 
of  the  September  number,  1833,  there  is  a  very  good- 
natured  notice  of  the  first  part  of  Outre-Mer,  which 
closed  with  Pere  la  Chaise,  but  without  a  word  that 
indicates  a  knowledge  of  the  authorship,  and  several  quo 
tations  from  pages  which  had  already  formed  part  of 
The  Schoolmaster.  However,  this  innocence  may  have 
been  assumed,  though  one  would  not  have  predicated 
it  from  an  acquaintance  with  more  modern  magazine 
editors.  The  last  three  chapters  of  The  Schoolmaster, 
were  not  reprinted,  and  the  serial  was  not  resumed, 
perhaps  because  the  author  preferred  the  more  satisfac 
tory  and  more  dignified  appearance  in  book-form.  A 
prior  publication  in  a  magazine  was  more  likely  to  ob 
scure  a  book  then  than  now.  It  is  not  impossible  that 
the  slight  conception  of  a  schoolmaster  was  reserved 
also  for  future  use  in  the  tale  of  Kavanagh." 

The  publication  of  the  Outre-Mer  of  Professor  Long 
fellow,  together  with  a  number  of  articles  by  him 
in  The  North-American  Review,  served  to  call  atten 
tion  to  him  in  a  marked  degree.  In  1835  Mr.  George 
Ticknor,  professor  of  modern  languages  at  Harvard, 
having  resigned  his  position,  Mr.  Longfellow  was  ap 
pointed  his  successor. 

But   we   must  return  to  Bowdoin  for  the   purpose 


AT    BOWDOIN    COLLEGE.  39 

of  recording  several  things  that  took  place  previous 
to  the  removal  of  the  young  and  popular  professor  to 
Cambridge.  One  of  these  events  was  his  marriage,  in 
September,  1831,  to  Mary  Storer  Potter,  daughter  of 
Judge  Barrett  Potter  and  Anne  Storer  Potter  of 
Portland.  Those  who  saw  him  at  this  time  describe 
him  as  somewhat  of  an.  exquisite  in  appearance, 
always  swinging  a  slender  little  cane  as  he  walked 
about.  This  custom  he  continued  for  a  time  in  Cam 
bridge  also.  He.  became  very  popular  as  an  instructor. 
President  Hamlin  of  Middlebury  College,  who  entered 
Bowdoin  in  1830,  says :  "  Longfellow  had  occupied  the 
chair  about  one  year.  Our  class  numbered  fifty-two, 
the  largest  freshman  class  that  had  up  to  that  time 
entered  college ;  and  many  of  its  members  were  attracted 
by  Longfellow's  reputation.  His  intercourse  with  the 
students  was  perfectly  simple,  frank,  and  gentlemanly. 
He  neither  flattered  nor  repelled:  he  neither  sought 
popularity,  nor  avoided  it.  He  was  a  close  and  ardent 
student  in  all  Spanish  and  French  literature.  He  had  / 
no  time  to  fritter  away ;  but  he  always  and  evidently  (*-v 
enjoyed  having  students  come  to  him  with  any  reason-  1 
able  question  about  languages,  authors,  literature,  me 
diaeval  or  modern  history,  more  especially  the  former. 
They  always  left  him,  not  only  with  admiration,  but 
guided  and  helped  and  inspired." 

During  his  residence  in  Brunswick  Mr.  Longfellow 
became  a  member  of  the  Maine  Historical  Society ;  and 
in  1834  he  held  the  office  of  librarian  and  cabinet-keeper. 
It  was  therefore  peculiarly  fitting,  that,  on  the  recent 
occasion  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  seventy-fifth  birthday,  the 
Maine  Historical  Society  should  celebrate  the  occasion 
by  having  a  series  of  careful  and  elaborate  historical 


40  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

and  biographical  articles  prepared  on  the  poet's  ances 
try  and  birthplace,  etc.  These  articles  have  been  of 
great  use  in  the  preparation  of  this  volume. 

AT  HARVARD  COLLEGE. 

As  Mr.  Longfellow  went  abroad  to  prepare  himself 
for  his  Bowdoin  College  duties,  so  did  he  when  he  was 
called  to  Harvard  College,  this  time  for  the  purpose 
of  studying  the  languages  of  Northern  Europe,  Danish, 
Swedish,  etc.  He  took  with  him  his  young  wife,  whom 
he  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  at  Rotterdam.  She  died, 
Nov.  29,  1835,  from  an  illness  contracted  after  confine 
ment. 

In  an  admirable  and  pains-taking  article  in  The  New- 
York  Evening  Post  for  March  25,  1882,1  the  writer, 
who  is  understood  to  be  Col.  Higginson,  says, — 

"  How  profound  was  the  impression  produced  upon 
him,  is  evident  from  The  Footsteps  of  Angels,  and 
from  the  allusions  in  the  early  part  of  Hyperion. 
Mrs.  Longfellow  was,  by  the  testimony  of  all  who 
knew  her,  a  person  of  rare  loveliness  of  person  and 
mind.  Her  father,  Hon.  Barrett  Potter  of  Portland, 
was  a  judge  of  probate,  and  a  man  of  strong  char 
acter,  holding  very  decided  views  as  to  the  education 
of  his  children,  of  whom  only  the  daughters  lived  to 
maturity.  Although  himself  an  old-fashioned  classical 
scholar,  he  believed  the  study  of  Greek  and  Latin  to 
be  unsuitable  for  girls :  all  else  was  open  to  them,  — 
modern  languages,  literature,  and  mathematics.  For 
all  these,  especially  the  last,  his  daughter  Mary  had  a 

1  The  above-mentioned  article,  by  reason  of  its  fulness  of  detail,  haa 
been  of  more  use  in  the  compilation  of  this  volume  than  any  other 
newspaper  memoir  of  the  poet  thus  far  published.  It  will  be  frequently 
quoted  in  the  following  pages. 


MBS.   LONGFELLOW.  41 

strong  taste.  Her  note-books  preserved  by  her  family 
give,  for  instance,  ample  and  accurate  reports,  recorded 
as  being  'from  memory,'  of  a  series  of  astronomical 
lectures ;  and  she  learned  to  calculate  eclipses,  which 
must  have  been  quite  beyond  the  average  attainments 
of  young  ladies  of  her  day.  She  was  for  several  years 
a  pupil  at  the  excellent  school  of  Miss  Gushing,  at 
Hingham  ;  and  all  her  school  papers,  abstracts  and 
compositions,  show  a  thoughtful  and  well-trained  mind. 
Some  exhibit  a  metaphysical  turn,  others  are  girlish 
studies  in  history  and  geography ;  but  the  love  of  lit 
erature  is  visible  everywhere,  in  copious  extracts  from 
the  favorite  authors  of  that  day,  —  Cowper,  Young, 
Mrs.  Hemans,  Bernard  Barton,  and  even  Coleridge  and 
Shelley.  Farther  on  in  the  series  of  note-books  the 
handwriting  becomes  firmer  and  maturer;  and  notes 
and  translations  appear  upon  the  pages  in  the  unmis 
takable  autograph  of  Longfellow,  almost  precisely  the 
same  at  twenty-four  as  at  seventy-four." 

The  spring  and  summer  subsequent  to  the  death  of 
his  wife  were  spent  in  Switzerland  and  the  Tyrol ;  he 
having  previously  travelled  in  Denmark,  Sweden,  Ger 
many,  and  Holland.  In  November,  1836,  he  returned 
to  Harvard,  and  entered  upon  the  duties  of  his  pro 
fessorship,  which  he  discharged  for  eighteen  years.  At 
the  end  of  this  period  (1854)  he  resigned,  to  devote 
himself  to  literature  wholly,  and  was  succeeded  by 
James  Russell  Lowell.  Of  his  popularity  and  faithful 
ness  during  his  service  with  the  university,  there  are 
many  testimonials.  Says  one,  — 

"  His  professional  service  at  Cambridge  contributed 
in  no  small  degree  to  his  own  fame  and  to  that  of  the 
university.  During  eighteen  years  he  was  the  valued 


42  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

and  ever  popular  head  in  the  department  of  modern 
literatures.  His  intellectual  gifts  and  already  great 
acquirements  were  fortified  and  constantly  refreshed 
by  new  studies  and  explorations  among  the  original 
sources  of  information ;  and  herein  lay  the  recognized 
value  of  his  services,  while  the  great  charm  of  his  pres 
ence  and  manner,  which  made  him  the  light  of  every 
social  circle  which  he  entered,  were  an  accompaniment 
of  what  might  otherwise  in  some  particulars  have  been 
a  dull  process  of  instruction.  Thus  he  was  ever  a 
favorite  professor  with  the  college  youth.  These  in 
structions  were  chiefly  in  Italian  and  Spanish  literature, 
and  largely  from  the  writings  of  Dante  and  Cervantes, 
and  were  given  in  the  form  of  lectures.  During  the 
period  named,  he  usually  lectured  three  times  a  week 
during  the  college  term  ;  and  his  method  was  mostly  in 
the  form  of  a  translation  from  the  original.  So  per 
fect  was  his  familiarity  with  the  theme,  and  ready  his 
speech,  that  he  would  read  Don  Quixote  in  this  way 
almost  into  verse.  The  translation  of  Dante,  which 
was  afterwards  prepared  for  publication,  was  made  in 
its  original  form  as  incidental  to  this  method  of  class 
instruction." 

Rev.  Edward  Everett  Hale  gives  this  account  of  Mr. 
Longfellow's  method  with  his  students  while  professor 
of  modern  literature  at  Harvard:  "As  it  happened, 
the  regular  recitation-rooms  of  the  college  were  all  in 
use  ;  and  we  met  him  in  a  sort  of  parlor,  carpeted,  huno 
with  pictures,  and  otherwise  handsomely  furnished, 
which  was,  I  believe,  called  '  the  Corporation  Room,' 
We  sat  round  a  mahogany  table,  which  was  reported  to 
be  meant  for  the  dinners  of  the  trustees ;  and  the  whole 
affair  had  the  aspect  of  a  friendly  gathering  in  a  private 


AT    HARVARD    COLLEGE.  43 

house,  in  which  the  study  of  German  was  the  amuse 
ment  of  the  occasion.  He  began  with  familiar  ballads, 
read  them  to  us,  and  made  us  read  them  to  him.  Of 
course  we  soon  committed  them  to  memory  without 
meaning  to,  and  I  think  this  was  probably  part  of  his 
theory.  At  the  same  time,  we  were  learning  the  para 
digms  by  rote.  His  regular  duty  was  the  oversight  of 
five  or  more  instructors  who  were  teaching  French, 
German,  Italian,  Spanish,  and  Portuguese  to  two  or 
three  hundred  undergraduates.  We  never  knew  when 
he  might  look  in  on  a  recitation,  and  virtually  conduct 
it.  We  were  delighted  to  have  him  come.  We  all 
knew  he  was  a  poet,  and  were  proud  to  have  him  in 
the  college,  but  at  the  same  time  we  respected  him  as 
a  man  of  affairs." 

He  was  always  careful  to  address  the  students  as 
"Mr.,"  —  a  rare  thing  in  those  days.  This  attitude 
won  the  respect  of  the  students.  Once  when  there 
were  very  threatening  indications  of  a  rebellion  among 
the  students,  and  the  other  professors  were  unable  to 
get  a  hearing  from  the  angry  and  excited  mob,  Mr. 
Longfellow  began  to  speak,  and  instantly  the  students 
became  quiet,  saying,  "  Let's  hear  Longfellow,  for  he 
always  treats  us  as  gentlemen." 

The  writer  in  The  New- York  Evening  Post  says 
that  "as  an  instructor  he  was  clear,  suggestive,  and 
encouraging ;  his  lectures  on  the  great  French  writers 
were  admirable,  and  his  facility  in  equivalent  phrases 
was  of  great  use  to  his  pupils,  and  elevated  their  stand 
ard  of  translation.  He  was  scrupulously  faithful  to 
his  duties,  and  even  went  through  the  exhausting 
process  of  marking  French  exercises  with  exemplary 
patience.  .  .  .  There  was  probably  no  college  in  the 


44  HENET  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

United  States  which  had  so  large  a  corps  of  instructors 
in  the  modern  languages  as  had  Harvard  at  that  time." 

At  a  memorial  service  held  in  East  Boston,  the  Sun 
day  succeeding  Mr.  Longfellow's  death,  the  Rev.  N.  H 
Chamberlain  said:  "He  laid  the  stress  of  his  refine 
ment  upon  all  the  members  of  his  class."  The  Rev.  Mr. 
Cudworth  said  :  "  His  nature  was  so  broad,  that,  while 
lie  was  ready  to  welcome  the  quickest  and  most  acute 
intellect  in  the  class,  he  was  so  patient  and  considerate 
that  he  waited  for  the  natural  development  of  the  in 
tellect  of  the  slowest." 

One  who  was  a  pupil  of  Professor  Longfellow  at 
Harvard  says,  in  The  Springfield  Republican:  "The 
old  New  Englanders  praise  a  man  by  calling  him  t  com 
municative  ; '  and  the  word  describes  Longfellow  in  its 
finest  shades  of  meaning.  He  did  not  talk,  or  read,  or 
lecture  for  display,  but  to  put  his  hearers  in  possession 
of  what  he  knew.  No  man  had  less  of  the  school 
master,  or  of  that  dry  and  technical  wisdom  which  the 
title  of  4  professor '  too  often  implies.  .  .  .  He  had  a 
weakness  in  dress  which  provoked  the  college  satirist 
to  doggerel  wit ;  but  this  only  brought  him  nearer  to 
the  graceless  young  scamps  who  satirized  him,  for  they 
would  all  have  been  dandies  if  they  could,  ev.en  while 
laughing  at  the  professor  as  a  dandy.  The  gibe  of 
Margaret  Fuller  about  '  a  dandy  Pindar  '  took  its  sting 
from  the  slight  youthful  fondness  of  Longfellow  for 
display  in  cravats  and  waistcoats." 

It  should  have  been  mentioned  that  Mr.  Longfellow's 
new  title  was  Smith  Professor  of  the  French  and  Span 
ish  Languages  and  Literature,  and  Professor  of  Belles 
Lettres.  On  coming  to  Cambridge,  in  1836,  he  was 
attracted  by  the  appearance  of 


THE   CRAIGIE    HOUSE,  THE   HOME   OF    LONGFELLOW, 

BRATTLE    STREET    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 


46  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

THE  CRAIGIE  HOUSE 

on  Brattle  Street,  and  applied  there  for  rooms.  The 
house  was  occupied  by  Mrs.  Craigie,  widow  of  Andrew 
Craigie.  When  Professor  Longfellow  made  known  his 
errand,  the  quaint  old  turbaned  lady  drew  herself  up 
with  dignity,  and  replied,  "  I  lodge  students  no  longer." 
But  when  he  told  her  he  was  a  professor,  her  manner 
changed,  and  she  showed  him  over  the  house.  As  she 
closed  the  door  of  each  room  she  said,  "  But  you  can't 
have  that."  At  last  she  led  him  to  the  north-east 
chamber,  told  him  that  it  had  been  Washington's  room, 
and  said,  "  This  you  can  have." 

"  The  room,"  says  George  William  Curtis,  "  was  upon 
the  front  of  the  house,  and  looked  over  the  meadows 
to  the  river.  It  had  an  atmosphere  of  fascinating  re 
pose  in  which  the  young  man  was  at  once  domesticated, 
as  in  an  old  home.  The  elms  of  the  avenue  shaded  his 
windows,  and,  as  he  glanced  from  them,  the  summer 
lay  asleep  upon  the  landscape-  in  the  windless  day. 
4  This,'  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  slight  sadness  in  her 
voice,  as  if  speaking  of  times  forever  past,  and  to  which 
she  herself  properly  belonged,  — '  this  was  Gen.  Wash 
ington's  chamber.' ':  The  room  was  then,  and  still  is, 
adorned  by  the  gayly-painted  Dutch  tiles,  characteristic 
of  houses  built  a  century  ago.  It  was  afterwards  the 
nursery  of  the  poet's  children.  He  makes  allusion  to 
it  in  his  poem  To  a  Child. 

The  lexicographer  Joseph  E.  Worcester  once  lived 
with  the  poet  in  this  house;  also  Miss  Sally  Lowell,  an 
aunt  of  James  Russell  Lowell.  In  1843,  after  Mrs. 
Craigie's  death,  the  estate  was  bought  for  Mr.  Long 
fellow  by  his  father-in-law,  Nathan  Appletori,  who  also 


CEAIGIE  HOUSE.  47 

presented  to  him  a  deed  of  the  lot  opposite  the  house, 
which  assured  him  an  unobstructed  view  of  the  broad 
rich  meadows  of  the  Charles  River  and  the  steeples 
of  Brighton  in  the  distance.  It  has  always  here 
tofore  been  erroneously  stated  that  Mr.  Longfellow 
purchased  this  lot.  He  did  purchase  some  adjoining 
lots,  on  one  of  which  stands  the  house  now  occupied 
by  his  son  Ernest.  He  also  bought  a  lot  connecting 
his  lawn  with  Berkeley  Street  in  the  rear,  and  on  this 
lot  Mr.  Ernest  Longfellow  has  erected  a  cottage  in 
the  Queen  Anne  style.  Mr.  Longfellow's  estate  com 
prised  about  ten  acres.  The  old  house,  which  contin 
ued  to  be  Mr.  Longfellow's  home  for  the  rest  of  his 
life,  is  rich  in  association.  It  was  built  midway  in  the 
last  century,  by  a  gentleman  of  family  and  distinction, 
named  Col.  John  Vassal,  whose  gravestone  in  the  Cam 
bridge  churchyard  bears  upon  it,  by  way  of  inscription, 
figures  of  a  goblet  and  a  sun  (  Vcis-sol),  a  pun  upon  the 
family  name.  In  the  same  churchyard  reposes  a  lady 
of  the  same  family,  with  a  slave  buried  at  her  feet 
and  another  at  her  head.  This  is  the  lady  of  whom 
Longfellow  wrote  in  his  poem  entitled  In  The  Church 
yard  at  Cambridge :  — 

"  In  the  village  churchyard  she  lies, 
Dust  is  in  her  beautiful  eyes, 

No  more  she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor  stirs ; 
At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a  slave  to  attend  the  dead, 

But  their  dust  is  white  as  hers. 

"  Was  she  a  lady  of  high  degree, 
So  much  in  love  with  the  vanity 

And  foolish  pomp  of  this  world  of  ours? 


48  HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Or  was  it  Christian  charity, 
And  lowliness  and  humility, 

The  richest  and  rarest  of  all  dowers  ? 

"  Who  shall  tell  us  ?     No  one  speaks ; 
No  color  shoots  into  those  cheeks, 

Either  of  anger  or  of  pride, 
At  the  rude  question  we  have  asked ; 
Nor  will  the  mystery  be  unmasked 

By  those  who  are  sleeping  at  her  side." 


After  the  death  of  Col.  Vassal  the  house  was  inher 
ited  by  his  son,  who,  being  a  Tory,  forfeited  all  his  prop 
erty.  Washington,  as  everybody  knows,  made  it  his 
headquarters  for  a  time,  his  reception-room  being  the 
front  right-hand  apartment  used  by  the  poet  as  a  study, 
while  the  opposite  room  was  used  by  Mrs.  Washington 
for  receptions. 

"  After  the  Revolutionary  war  the  house  was  sold  to 
one  Thomas  Tracy,  who  appears  to  have  been  a  sort 
of  American  Vathek,  emulating  as  far  as  possible  in  an 
uncongenial  clime  the  magnificent  doings  of  the  East 
ern  prince.  Some  of  his  wealth  he  got  by  privateer 
ing.  With  the  passing  of  his  wealth,  clouds  gathered 
about  the  old  house.  We  hear  of  it  no  more  until  it 
came  into  the  hands  of  the  last  owner  save  one,  An 
drew  Craigie."  Craigie  was  a  wealthy  commissary  or 
apothecary-general  in  the  Revolutionary  army.  He  was 
interested  in  land  speculations  in  East  Cambridge,  and 
built  the  bridge  between  Cambridge  and  Boston,  which 
was  named  for  him,  and  still  bears  his  name. 

"  The  expenses  it  entailed  ruined  him :  he  became 
so  embarrassed  with  debt  that  it  is  said  he  was  afraid 
to  come  out  of  his  house  except  on  Sundays.  Necessity 


CRAIG  IE  HOUSE.  49 

obliged  him  to  part  with  all  save  eight  of  the  two  hun 
dred  or  a  hundred  and  fifty  acres,  originally  included 
in  the  estate ;  and  after  his  death  Mrs.  Craigie  was 
forced  to  let  lodgings  to  the  youth  of  Harvard,  pygmies 
all  to  her,  though  to  us  such  intellectual  giants  as 
Everett,  Sparks,  and  Longfellow  were  among  them. 
Of  the  reduced  gentlewoman  some  curious  stories  are 
told.  On  one  occasion  her  young  poet-lodger,  entering 
her  parlor  in  the  morning,  found  her  sitting  by  the 
open  window,  through  which  innumerable  canker-worms 
had  crawled  from  the  trees  they  were  devouring  out 
side.  They  had  fastened  themselves  to  her  dress,  and 
hung  in  little  writhing  festoons  from  the  white  turban 
on  her  head.  Her  visitor,  surprised  and  shocked,  asked 
if  she  could  do  nothing  to  destroy  the  worms.  Raising 
her  eyes  from  the  book  which  she  sat  calmly  reading, 
like  Indifference  on  a  monument,  she  said,  in  tones  of 
solemn  rebuke,  '  Young  man,  have  not  our  fellow- 
worms  as  good  a  right  to  live  as  we?'  —  an  answer 
which  throws  4  Uncle  Toby's '  '  Go,  little  fly,'  quite  into 
the  shade." 

The  house  came  into  Mr.  Longfellow's  possession  in 
1843.  It  was  built  in  the  Georgian  style  of  archi 
tecture,  a  capacious  and  imposing  mansion,  square  in 
front,  the  color  buff,  with  window-framings,  antique 
pilasters,  and  balustrade  on  the  roof,  all  in  white.  It 
stands  some  fifty  yards  back  from  winding  Brattle 
Street,  on  a  slight  rise  in  the  ground,  which  is  broken  by 
two  grassy  terraces.  The  wall  along  the  sidewalk  has 
inside  of  it  a  high  hedge  of  purple  and  white  lilac- 
bushes.  The  grounds  immediately  surrounding  the 
house  are  adorned  with  not  too  many  tall  trees,  and 
with  shrubs.  In  the  rear  is  a  stable,  also  buff  in  color. 
4 


50      HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Along  each  side  of  the  house  extends  a  wide  verauda. 
In  front,  the  view  stretches  away  to  the  Brighton 
meadows  and  hills,  often  suffused  with  dim  gray  and 
violet  tints. 

"  The  house,"  says  The  New- York  Evening  Post, 
"  had  its  stately  halls,  its  cavernous  recesses,  its  secret 
crypts;  from  one  of  which  hiding-places  came  fortb 
mysteriously,  dropping  night  by  night  upon  the  stairs. 
those  letters  yellow  with  age,  and  recording  some  dim 
secret,  which  have  been  made  the  theme  of  one  of  Saxe 
Holm's  best  stories,  i.e.,  'Esther  Wyim's  Love-Letters.' " 
The  Craigie  House  letters  were  addressed  to  the  hus 
band  of  the  picturesque  old  lady  just  referred  to,  who 
sat  with  her  fellow-worms  by  the  parlor  window.  Mr. 
Longfellow  had  intended  to  write  a  poem  about  these 
letters,  but  Saxe  Holm  anticipated  him.  The  age  of 
Craigie  House  is  attested  by  an  iron  in  the  back  of  one 
of  the  chirmeys,  which  bears  the  date  1759.  There  is 
a  tradition  that  the  house  is  connected  with  the  Batch- 
elder  house  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  by  a  sub 
terranean  passage.  The  poet  took  the  greatest  pride  in 
his  house  and  in  its  traditions.  He  was  fond  of  telling 
how,  in  the  room  used  by  him  as  a  study,  Gen.  Wash 
ington  had  received  with  the  most  freezing  politeness 
the  gentleman  sent  from  Boston  by  Gov.  Hancock, 
with  the  request  that  Gen.  Washington  would  call  upon 
him.  The  governor  conceived  that  in  his  own  State 
he  was  the  superior  of  Washington.  The  general,  on 
learning  this,  slipped  out  of  Boston,  and,  returning  to 
Cambridge,  staid  there  until  the  governor  avaled  the 
flag  of  his  pride,  and  came  to  see  him  at  Craigie 
House. 

A  writer  in  The   Boston  Book  Bulletin  has  given 


52  HENRY    WADSWOETH   LONGFELLOW. 

a  complete  and  charming  picture  of  the  interior  of  the 
Longfellow  mansion :  — 

"  Passing  through  the  hall  we  enter  4  Lady  Washing 
ton's  Drawing  Room.'  The  furniture  is  white  satin 
covered  with  gay  flowers  in  vines  and  clusters ;  arm 
chairs  and  sofas  are  heaped  with  soft  cushions  covered 
with  the  same  material.  The  carpet  is  a  bed  of  flowers. 

"  The  effect  is  greatly  heightened  by  a  large  mirror 
opening  another  gay  vista,  and  a  picture  in  gorgeous 
colors  extending  from  wall  to  ceiling.  It  is  one  of 
Copley's, 4  The  Grandchildren  of  Sir  William  Pepperell.' 
A  quaint  little  maiden,  in  a  high  cap  and  stiff  bodice,  a 
youth  with  flowing  curls,  and  a  wooden-looking  poodle, 
compose  the  group.  The  picture  is  set  in  a  massive 
burnished  frame,  and  the  effect  would  be  oppressive  in 
another  room,  but  is  in  admirable  harmony  with  this 
state  apartment. 

"  On  an  gtagcre,  laden  with  treasures,  is  an  agate 
cup  from  the  hand  of  no  less  a  master  than  Benvenuto 
Cellini,  —  clear,  exquisitely  carved,  graceful  in  shape, 
and  guarded  by  two  tiny  open-mouthed  dragons.  It 
was  sent  to  Longfellow  from  the  collection  of  the  poet 
Rogers,  and  had  therefore  a  double  value  in  his  eyes. 
As  he  held  it  in  his  hand,  and  pointed  out  its  beauties, 
one  could  but  think  what  a  crowd  of  associations  were 
gathering  in  its  delicate  cup. 

"  In  the  dining-room  we  see  rare  old  china,  a  modern 
picture  of  a  cardinal  in  red,  walking  in  the  Borghese 
Gardens,  and  several  family  portraits.  Among  them  is 
Buchanan  Read's  picture  of  '  Longfellow's  Daughters,' 
that  has  been  photographed  so  often,  —  the  4  blue-eyed 
banditti '  that  the  poet-father  has  so  charmingly  apos 
trophized  in  The  Children's  Hour  :  — 


THE  POET'S  LIBRARY.  53 

'  Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair.' 

"  From  this  room  we  pass  into  a  long,  narrow  hall, 
running  the  length  of  the  house.  At  its  head  great 
Jove  looks  before  him  with  big,  unseeing  eyes ;  while  on 
either  side  are  those  lovely  marble  women,  who,  in  spite 
of  Lord  Byron's  couplet,  — 

'  I've  seen  more  beauty,  ripe  and  real, 
Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal,* 

still  hold  their  own  —  as  embodied  ideas  in  human 
shape  —  against  their  living  sisters. 

"The  library  is  the  most  beautiful  room  in  the 
house, — dark  and  rich  in  tone,  with  a  look  of  spacious 
elegance  and  home-like  comfort.  On  three  sides  the 
walls  are  lined  with  books.  The  bronzes  and  Japa 
nese  screens  are  studies. 

"Here  hangs  a  portrait  of  Liszt.  The  background 
is  dark,  and  he  is  dressed  in  the  long  black  convent 
robe.  High  above  his  head  he  holds  a  lighted  candle. 
The  rays  shape  themselves  like  a  halo  round  his  head, 
and  throw  into  fine  relief  the  thin,  spirited  face. 

"  Mr.  Longfellow  saw  him  thus  for  the  first  time  as  he 
stood  in  the  convent-door  peering  out  into  the  night. 
The  vision  impressed  itself  upon  the  poet,  and  he  per 
suaded  Liszt  to  have  his  picture  painted. 

"  From  the  library  a  passage  leads  to  the  billiard-room, 
now  fallen  into  disuse,  and  converted  into  an  aesthetic 
lumber-room,  where  one  would  delight  to  dream  away 
a  rainy  day. 

"  The  rooms  up-stairs  are  as  full  of  interest  as  those 
below. 

"  One  suite  has  been  fitted  up  by  Mr.  Longfellow's 


54  HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

son  (Charles  Appleton)  in  Japanese  style.  The  wall 
paper  is  of  neutral  tint,  ornamented  with  Japanese  fans 
in  groups  of  twos  and  threes.  The  heathen  gods  frown 
at  you,  national  arms  are  collected,  tables  are  heaped 
with  Japanese  books  made  on  the  principle  of  cat-stairs, 
and  photographs  of  Japanese  beauties,  with  button-hole 
mouths  and  long  bright  eyes,  abound. 

"  This  article  would  become  a  catalogue  of  descrip 
tion  should  I  try  to  enumerate  half  the  curiosities  to  be 
seen  in  this  grand  old  house.  One  cabinet  alone,  with 
its  medley  of  treasures,  is  worth  an  afternoon's  study. 
Here  is  a  bit  of  Dante's  coffin ;  there  an  agate  cylinder, 
and  some  brilliant  African  beetles.  Two  canes  attract 
you :  one  is  made  from  the  spar  of  the  ship  on  which 
4  The  Star-spangled  Banner '  was  written ;  the  other 
comes  from  Acadie,  and  is  surmounted  by  a  hideous 
head,  which,  Mr.  Longfellow  used  to  say,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye,  was  the  poet's  idea  of  Evangeline." 

HYPERION. 

In  1839  appeared  "  Hyperion :  a  Romance,"  the  first 
of  the  poet's  works  written  in  Craigie  House.  It  was 
published  in  New  York.  It  was  the  only  one  of  his 
works  ever  published  outside  of  Boston  and  Cambridge, 
with  the  exception  of  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe, 
a  compilation  made  for  Philadelphia  publishers,  and 
Outre-Mer  (Harpers,  1835).1  It  may  be  noted  that 
the  only  one  of  Hawthorne's  works  published  outside 
of  Boston  was  his  "  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,"  pub 
lished  in  New  York. 

1  Reference  is  made  here  to  the  first  publication  of  his  works.  All 
his  works  have  been  republished  in  England,  and  an  illustrated  edition 
was  published  in  Philadelphia. 


SECOND    MARRIAGE.  55 

The  origin  of  Hyperion  was  as  follows.  Being  in 
Switzerland  in  1836,  some  considerable  time  after  the 
death  of  his  wife,  Mr.  Longfellow  chanced  to  meet 
the  family  of  Mr.  Nathan  Appleton  of  Boston.  They 
were  travelling  in  style  through  the  country,  with  foot 
men  and  postilions.1  Miss  Fanny  Elizabeth  Appleton, 
the  daughter  of  Mr.  Nathan  Appleton,  and  sister  of  Mr. 
Thomas  Gold  Appleton,  the  well-known  Boston  author, 
was  at  that  time  a  most  beautiful  girl  of  eighteen  or 
twenty,  and  she  completely  captivated  the  heart  of  the 
poet.  The  suit  was  not  well  received  by  her  at  first, 
the  disparity  of  age  probably  seeming  disagreeable  to 
her.  But  the  suitor  was  not  to  be  put  off,  and  deliber 
ately  set  to  work  to  win  her  by  writing  his  Hyperion, 
in  which  Miss  Appleton  was  introduced  under  the  name 
Mary  Ashburton. 

THE  POET'S  SECOND  MARRIAGE. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  heroine  of  the  romance  was 

not  wholly  pleased  at  being  the  recognized  subject  of 

so  much  sentiment.     The  marriage,  however,  took  place 

at  last,  in  July,  1843;  and  for  nearly  twency  years  their 

narried   life  was   one  of   unmiiigled  happiness.       Six 

1  A  pleasant  little  incident  is  related  in  this  connection.  Mr.  Long- 
'ellow  had  joined  the  Appleton  party ;  and  "at  Zurich  the  innkeeper, 
^s  innkeepers  often  do,  thought  he  could  charge  heavily  for  what  he 
gave.  Mr.  Appleton  had  written  his  name  in  the  travellers'  book,  with 
compliments  to  the  hotel,  which  he  regretted  when  the  hill  was  brought 
to  him.  '  But  I  have  not  written  my  name,'  said  Mr.  Longfellow;  '  and 
\f  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  treat  the  innkeeper  as  he  deserves.'  The 
tame  of  the  inn  was  '  The  Raven.'  Mr.  Longfellow  withdrew  with  the 
>ook,  and  in  rive  minutes  returned  with  these  witty  lines  written  under 
sis  name  :  — 

4  Beware  of  the  Raven  of  Ziirich ! 

'Tis  a  bird  of  omen  ill ; 
With  a  noisy  and  an  unclean  nesl, 
And  a  very,  very  Ion?:  bill.'  " 


56  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

children  blessed  their  household,  —  two  sons,  Charles 
Appleton  and  Ernest  Wadsworth ;  and  three  daughters,1 
Alice  M.,  Edith  (now  wife  of  Richard  Henry  Dana), 
and  Annie  Allegra.  Mrs.  Longfellow  was  a  lady  of  rare 
beauty  and  great  dignity  of  bearing :  her  "  deep,  un 
utterable  eyes  "  have  been  sung  by  her  husband.  On 
July  9,  1861,  Mrs.  Longfellow  was  burned  to  death  by 
her  clothing  catching  fire  from  a  wax  taper  with  which 
she  was  sealing  a  letter  enclosing  a  lock  of  hair  of 
one  of  her  children.  She  wore  a  light  summer  dress 
of  inflammable  material,  which  made  the  extinguishing 
of  the  flames  more  difficult.  Mr.  Longfellow  ran  out 
from  an  adjoining  room,  clasped  his  wife  in  his  arms, 
and  succeeded  in  partially  subduing  the  fire  on  one 
side  of  her  face  and  person;  but  the  envious  flames 
had  done  their  work,  and  she  presently  expired  in  great 
suffering.  Mr.  Longfellow  was  himself  severely  burned. 
He  was  nearly  crazed  with  grief :  he  shut  himself  up  in 
his  room,  walking  to  and  fro,  wringing  his  hands,  and 
crying  out,  "  Oh,  my  beautiful  wife,  my  beautiful  wife ! " 
The  writer  of  these  lines  was  told  by  a  friend  of  the 
Longfellow  family,  that,  when  Mrs.  Longfellow  was 
placed  in  the  coffin,  the  side  of  her  face  which  had  been 
protected  by  the  effort  of  her  husband  to  extinguish  the 
flames  was  placed  uppermost,  and  was  so  fresh  and 
beautiful  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  lay  there  asleep.  Mr. 
Longfellow  never  fully  recovered  from  this  shock,  and 
ever  afterwards  seemed  an  old  man. 

Of  this  grief  Mr.  R.  H.  Stoddard  in  "  Poets'  Homes  " 
(D.  Lothrop  &  Co.)  writes  :  — 

"  He  has  known  poignant  sorrow.  Death  has  entered 
his  home,  and  taken  from  it  his  dearest.  That  this,  a 
sorrow  ever  abiding,  is  one  from  which,  in  a  sense,  he 

1  The  third  child,  a  daughter  with  her  mother's  name,  died  at  the 

aj?^  of  o-  ff.W  TiDDtllR. 


NATHAN    AP1LETON.  57 

will  never  recover,  the  years  h«r.ve  proved.  His  melan 
choly  is  but  dimly  seen,  like  a  smoke  curling  upward 
from  a  blazing  fire.  Yet  it  is  present  always,  veiling 
his  cheerfulness  and  saddening  his  smiles." 

"  I  never  heard  him  make  but  one  allusion  to  the  great 
grief  of  his  life,"  said  an  intimate  friend.  "  We  were  speak 
ing  of  Schiller's  fine  poem,  The  Ring  of  Poly  crates.  He 
said,  *  It  was  just  so  with  me.  I  was  too  happy.  I  might 
fancy  the  gods  envied,  if  I  could  fancy  heathen  gods.'" 

NATHAN  APPLETON,  -  MRS.  LONGFELLOW'S  FATHER. 

The  father  of  the  lamented  Mrs.  Longfellow,  Mr 
Nathan  Appleton  of  Boston,  was  in  many  respects  a 
remarkable  man.  He  was  born  in  New  Ipswich,  N.H., 
Oct.  6,  1779,  and  was  descended  from  respectable  and 
knightly  ancestry.  He  married  Miss  Maria  Theresa, 
daughter  of  Thomas  Gold,  Esq.,  a  Pittsfield  lawyer. 
The  reader  will  peruse  with  much  interest  the  following 
sketch  of  Nathan  Appleton,  written  by  the  Hon.  Robert 
C.  Winthrop :  — 

44  At  early  dusk  on  some  October  or  November  even 
ing,  in  the  year  1794,  a  fresh,  vigorous,  bright-eyed  lad, 
just  turned  of  fifteen,  might  have  been  seen  alighting 
from  a  stage-coach  near  Quaker  Lane,1  as  it  was  then 
called,  in  the  town  of  Boston.  He  had  been  two  days 
on  the  road  from  his  home  in  the  town  of  New  Ipswich, 
in  the  State  of  New  Hampshire.  On  the  last  of  the 
two  days  the  stage-coach  had  brought  him  all  the  way 
from  Groton  in  Massachusetts ;  starting  for  that  pur 
pose  early  in  the  morning,  stopping  at  Concord  for  the 
passengers  to  dine,  trundling  them  through  Charlestown 
about  the  time  the  evening  lamps  were  lighted,  and 

1  Now  Congress  Street. 


58 


HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


finishing  the  whole  distance  of  rather  more  than  thirty 
miles  in  season  for  supper.  The  Boston  stage-coach  in 
those  days  went  no  farther  than  Groton  in  that  direc 
tion.  His  father's  farm-horse,  or  perhaps  that  of  one 
of  the  neighbors,  had  served  his  turn  for  the  first  six. 
or  seven  miles  ;  his  little  brother  of  ten  years  old  hav 
ing  followed  him  as  far  as  Townsend,  to  ride  the  horse 
home  again.  But  from  there  he  had  trudged  along  to 
Groton  on  foot,  with  a  bundle-handkerchief  in  his  hand, 
which  contained  all  the  wearing-apparel  he  had,  except 
what  was  on  his  back. 

"  At  early  dawn  on  the  morning  of  Sunday,  July  14, 
1861,  there  died,  at  his  beautiful  residence  in  Beacon 
Street,  adorned  within  by  many  choice  works  of  luxury 
and  art,  and  commanding  without  the  lovely  scenery  of 
the  Mall,  the  Common,  and  the  rural  environs  of  Bos 
ton,  a  venerable  person  of  more  than  fourscore  years ;  a 
merchant  of  large  enterprise  and  unsullied  integrity; 
a  member  of  many  learned  societies ;  a  writer  of  many 
able  essays  on  commerce  and  currency ;  a  wise  and  pru 
dent  counsellor  in  all  private  and  public  affairs ;  who 
had  served  with  marked  distinction  in  the  legislative 
halls  both  of  the  State  and  of  the  Nation,  and  who  had 
enjoyed  through  life  the  esteem,  respect,  and  confidence 
of  the  community  in  which  he  lived." 

HYPERION. 

To  return  to  Hyperion.  The  work  became  extreme 
ly  popular,  and  remained  so  for  many  years.  Up  to 
1857  upwards  of  14,550  copies  had  been  sold.  On 
March  18,  1840,  Charles  Simmer  writes  from  London 
to  his  friend,  George  S.  llillard:  "I  have  just  found 


HYPERION.  50 

Longfellow's  Hyperion,  and  shall  sit  up  all  night  to 
read  it.  I  have  bought  up  all  the  copies  of  Voices  of 
the  Night  in  London  to  give  to  my  friends."  The 
book  has  a  sweet  and  mellow  tone,  like  Outre-Mer. 
What  reader  of  books  does  not  remember  how  it 
charmed  him  with  its  subdued  humor,  its  fresh  pictures 
of  German  life,  and  its  solemn  pathos  ?  What  young 
man  that  read  after  Flemming  these  words  on  the 
tablet  in  the  church,  did  not  carry  them  away  for 
ever  impressed  on  the  tablets  of  his  heart?  —  "Look 
not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  It  comes  not  back 
again.  Wisely  improve  the  Present.  It  is  thine.  Go 
forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future,  without  fear,  and 
with  a  manly  heart."  How  beautiful,  too,  the  follow 
ing  !  —  "  In  ancient  times  there  stood  in  the  citadel  of 
Athens  three  statues  of  Minerva.  The  first  was  of 
olive-wood,  and,  according  to  tradition,  had  fallen  from 
heaven ;  the  second  was  of  bronze,  commemorating  the 
victory  of  Marathon  ;  and  the  third  of  gold  and  ivory,  a 
great  miracle  of  art  in  the  age  of  Pericles.  And  thus  in 
the  citadel  of  Time  stands  Man  himself.  In  childhood, 
shaped  of  soft  arid  delicate  wood,  just  fallen  from  heaven ; 
in  manhood,  a  statue  of  bronze,  commemorating  struggle 
and  victory ;  and  lastly,  in  the  maturity  of  age,  perfectly 
shaped  in  gold  and  ivory,  —  a  miracle  of  art !  "  Or  this 
often-quoted  passage  about  the  Rhine :  "  By  heavens., 
if  I  were  a  German  I  would  be  proud  of  it  too,  and  of 
the  clustering  grapes  that  hang  about  its  temples,  as 
it  reels  onward  through  vineyards  in  triumphal  march, 
like  Bacchus  crowned  and  drunken ! "  The  book  is 
written  in  a  style  more  verbose  and  rhetorical  than  now 
prevails,  and  therefore  is  apt  to  be  "  skimmed "  by 
readers  of  to-day;  but  it  is  still  the  best  guide-book 


60  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGfELLOW. 

to  the  Rhine  and  Heidelberg.  Professor  Felton  said  of 
it  on  its  appearance,  "  It  is  a  book  for  minds  attuned  to 
sentiments  of  tenderness,  —  minds  of  an  imaginative 
turn,  and  willing  and  ready  to  interest  themselves  in 
reveries  as  gorgeous  as  morning  dreams,  and  in  the 
delicate  perceptions  of  art  and  poetry,  —  minds  tried  by 
suffering,  and  sensitively  alive  to  the  influence  of  the 
beautiful.  ...  In  tender  and  profound  feeling,  and  in 
brilliancy  of  imagery,  the  work  will  bear  a  comparison 
with  the  best  productions  of  romantic  fiction  which 
English  literature  can  boast." 

In  the  Longfellow  number  of  The  Literary  World 
Col.  Higginson  said,  — 

"  The  travelling  American  will  find  himself  an  object 
of  interest  to  every  Englishman  so  soon  as  he  claims 
personal  acquaintance  with  Mark  Twain  ;  and  to  every 
English  woman,  after  she  discovers  that  he  has  the 
honor  of  a  personal  acquaintance  with  Professor  Long 
fellow.  We  heard  a  lady  of  that  section  say  to  her 
companions,  on  a  Rhine  steamer,  that  it  was  all  non 
sense  to  carry  guide-books,  since  nothing  was  really 
essential  on  that  river  except  the  writings  of  Long 
fellow.  On  the  lofty  heights  of  the  Gorner  Grat,  above 
Zermatt,  we  met  a  party  of  English  school-girls,  who 
declared  that  Hyperion  was  their  favorite  book;  and 
we  encountered  an  elderly  Englishman  at  Chamonix, 
who  sighed  over  the  memory  of  Emma  of  Ilmenau,  and 
murmured  solemnly,  '  That  night  there  fell  a  star  from 
heaven.'  This  is  fame,  —  a  fame  almost  as  substantial 
as  to  have  written  Robinson  Crusoe  or  Don  Quixote. 

"  Emerson  tells  us  to  hitch  our  wagons  to  a  star ;  and 
it  is  a  good  thing  when  a  romance  has  a  permanent  place 
among  the  guide-books.  No  traveller  can  fully  enjoy 


HEIDELBERG.  61 

Quebec  without  Howells's  Wedding  Journe},  or  Hei 
delberg  without  Hyperion.  Our  copy — the  cheap  Ger 
man  imprint  —  gained  a  new  charm  from  being  carried  as 
a  pocket  treasure  among  the  ruined  halls  of  the  beauti 
ful  castle,  and  to  the  summit'  of  the  4  Rent  Tower.'  It 
produced  a  momentary  doubt  when  we  failed  to  find  on 
that  eminence  any  c  great  linden  trees ; '  but  it  was  easy 
to  convince  one's  self  that  forty  years  might  have  re 
moved  them  from  their  airy  perch,  and  that  even  Paul 
Flemming  and  his  Baron  would  now  have  to  content 
themselves  with  second-growth  trees.  But  the  glory  of 
the  castle  is  still  there,  and  the  throng  of  people ;  and 
the  American  visitor  enjoys  it  all  the  more  from  the 
knowledge  that  his  own  fellow-countryman  has  em 
balmed  it  in  literature. 

"  Yet,  while  reading  Hyperion  at  Heidelberg,  and 
while  passing  maturer  judgment  on  a  book  which  we 
almost  knew  by  heart  at  sixteen,  we  were  compelled  to 
recognize  a  certain  crudeness  of  quality  and  a  turgid- 
ness  of  style  which  were  singularly  absent  from  Mr. 
Longfellow's  poetry  at  the  same  period.  Hyperion 
did  great  service  in  its  day,  and  certainly  shared  with 
Carlyle's  essays  the  merit  of  directing  the  attention  of 
English-speaking  people  to  the  wealth  of  German  liter 
ature.  When  we  now  read  what  the  author  says  of 
Goethe  and  Jean  Paul,  and  the  wild  thoughts  he  has 
gleaned  from  Fichte  and  Schubert,  we  judge  them  in 
the  light  of  forty  years  of  later  literature ;  but  at  the 
first  publication  this  book  brought  Germany  to  us 
almost  as  Madame  de  Stael  had  brought  it  to  French 
readers;  and  was  our  guide  into  a  new  world  of 
delight.  Moreover,  the  blossoming  period  of  German 
poetry  was  then  less  remote,  by  nearly  half  a  century, 


62  HEN  BY   WADSWOBTII  LONGFELLOW. 

than  now ;  and  the  bards  whom  Longfellow  translated 
seemed  contemporaries.  Now  we  know  that,  for  what 
ever  reason,  their  reign  is  over,  and  that  Germany  no 
longer  produces  even  Riickerts  and  Freiligraths.  But 
it  is  none  the  less  true  that  Hyperion  will  represent, 
so  long  as  it  is  read,  the  freshness  of  German  romance 
as  it  was  transmitted  to  the  still  fresher  apprehension 
of  newly-awakened  America. 

"  An  enthusiastic  young  Dane,  a  Harvard  student, 
who  in  those  days  beguiled  a  summer  vacation  by 
translating  the  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  of  Nova- 
lis,  closed  his  preface  to  that  charming  and  incompre 
hensible  tale  by  saying  solemnly :  '  Novalis  died  young. 
The  translator  is  also  young.'  Probably  much  of  the 
power  of  Hyperion  lay  in  the  fact  that  the  interpret 
er  of  all  this  romance  was  '  also  young.'  He  was  but 
thirty-two  when  it  appeared,  and  was  indeed  but  twenty- 
nine  when  he  returned  from  Europe,  where  most  of  the 
book  was  probably  written.  All  that  could  be  fairly 
asked  of  a  romance  produced  at  that  age  and  under 
such  circumstances  was  that  it  should  have  superabun 
dant  wealth,  and  this  Hyperion  certainly  had.  With 
fewer  faults  it  would  have  had  less  promise.  Professor 
Channing  used  to  say  that  it  was  a  bad  sign  for  a  young 
man  to  write  too  well :  there  must  be  something  to  be 
pruned  down." 

VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Since  the  publication  of  Coplas  de  Manrique,  Mr. 
Longfellow  had  at  various  times  been  contributing 
poems  to  the  magazines,  and  particularly  to  The 
Knickerbocker.  In  1839  these,  together  with  some 
of  his  earlier  poems  and  translations,  were  published 


VOICE*   OF  THE  N1GII1  (53 

at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  by  John  Owen,  who  was  then 
conducting  the  University  Bookstore,  corner  of  Harvard 
and  Holyoke  Streets.  The  volume  was  a  pretty  little 
16mo,  in  light  cream-colored  binding,  the  covers  having 
elaborate  colored  designs,  —  the  front  one  showing  a 
curtain  half-drawn  back  upon  a  night  landscape.  "  It 
is  remembered  as  if  it  were  yesterday,"  says  one,  "  when 
a  printer's  devil  invaded  the  peaceful  recitation-room 
of  Harvard,  where  the  students  sat  in  the  pleasant 
fashion  of  those  days  around  a  table,  and  laid  upon  it 
the  proof-sheet  of  a  title-page,  Voices  of  the  Night." 

The  success  of  the  book  was  striking  and  immediate. 
Up  to  1857  more  copies  of  it  had  been  sold  than  of  any 
other  work  of  the  poet  except  Hiawatha  (namely,  forty- 
three  thousand  of  the  "  Voices,"  against  fifty  thousand 
of  Hiawatha).  The  Psalm  of  Life  appeared  here,  as 
well  as  The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers,  and  Footsteps 
of  Angels,  The  Beleaguered  City,  and  Midnight  Mass 
for  the  Dying  Year. 

In  Pierre's  Memoir  and  Letters  of  Charles  Sumner 
(ii.,  227),  there  is  a  letter  from  Sumner  to  Longfellow, 
in  which  he  says,  "  A  few  days  ago  an  old  classmate, 
upon  whom  the  world  has  not  smiled,  came  to  my  office 
to  prove  some  debts  in  bankruptcy.  While  writing  the 
formal  parts  of  the  paper,  I  inquired  about  his  reading 
and  the  books  which  interested  him  now  (I  believe  he 
has  been  a  great  reader).  He  said  that  he  read  very 
little  ;  that  he  hardly  found  any  thing  which  was  written 
from  the  heart  and  was  really  true.  4  Have  you  read 
Longfellow's  Hyperion  ?  '  I  said.  '  Yes,'  he  replied, 
4  and  I  admire  it  very  much  :  I  think  it  a  very  great 
book.'  He  then  added  in  a  very  solemn  manner,  '  I 
think  I  may  say  that  Longfellow's  Psalm  of  Life  saved 


64  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

me  from  suicide.  I  first  found  it  on  a  scrap  of  news 
paper,  in  the  hands  of  two  Irishwomen,  soiled  and 
worn  ;  and  I  was  at  once  touched  by  it.' ' 

The  Chinese  translator  and  noted  scholar,  Tung 
Tajen,  a  great  admirer  of  Mr.  Longfellow,  sent  the 
poet  a  Chinese  fan,  upon  which  was  inscribed  in 
Chinese  characters  a  translation  of  the  Psalm  of  Life. 
The  fan  is  one  of  the  folding  kind,  and  the  characters 
are  inscribed  on  it  in  vertical  columns. 

A  still  greater  curiosity  is  a  re-translation  of  the 
Psalm  of  Life  into  English  out  of  the  Chinese.  It  was 
made  by  an  Englishman  serving  on  the  staff  of  the 
Hon.  An  son  Burlingame,  then  American  minister  to 
China.  The  first  stanza  of  the  "  Psalm  "  is  given  be 
low,  accompanied  by  the  re-translation :  — 

Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ; 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

RE-TRANSLATION. 

Do  not  manifest  your  discontent  in  a  piece  of  verse : 
A  hundred  years  [of  life]  are,  in  truth,  as  one  sleep  [so  soon  are 

they  gone] ; 
fhe  short  dream  [early  death],  the  long  dream  [death  after  long 

life],  alike  are  dreams  [so  far  as  the  body  is  concerned; 

after  death] 
There  still  remains  the  spirit  [which  is  able  to]  fill  the  universe. 

Mr.  Longfellow  used  to  tell  the  following  incident  : 
"I  was  once  riding  in  London,  when  a  laborer  ap 
proached  the  carriage,  and  asked,  4  Are  you  the  writer 
of  the  Psalm  of  Life?'  — 4 1  am.'  — 'Will  you  allow 
me  to  shake  hands  with  you  ? '  We  clasped  hands 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS.        65 

warmly.    The  carriage  passed  on,  and  I  saw  him  no  more ; 
but    I   remember  that  as  one  of  the  most  gratifying 
compliments  I  ever  received,  because  it  was  so  sincere." 
Mr.  Longfellow's  next  published  work  was 

BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

This  contained  Excelsior,  The  Village  Blacksmith, 
The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The  Skeleton  in  Armor, 
etc.,  and  was  published  at  Cambridge  in  1841.  All 
of  the  pieces  mentioned  have  been  extremely  popu 
lar,  and  are  among  his  best  minor  poems.  It  is  said 
that  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  when  once  riding  by 
Mr.  Longfellow's  residence,  was  asked  by  a  friend 
which  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  poems  he  considered  to 
be  the  finest.  "  Excelsior,"  he  replied ;  and  when 
asked  which  of  his  own  he  thought  the  best,  he  said, 
"  The  Chambered  Nautilus."  The  critical  and  the  un 
critical  alike  have  almost  universally  admired  the 
ballads  in  this  collection.  Even  Poe  could  not  with 
hold  his  meed  of  praise,  although  he  objected  to  the 
salt  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  skipper's  daughter,  in 
the  poem  called  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus ;  and 
Mr.  John  Burroughs  has,  with  characteristic  devotion 
to  truth,  revealed  the  inaccuracy  of  Mr.  Longfellow's 
statement  about  the  cormorant  sailing  with  wings 
aslant,  when  bearing  off  his  prey:  such  birds  always 
flap  their  wings  heavily  when  they  rise  from  the  water 
with  a  fish,  or  are  carrying  off  any  prey  in  their  talons. 

In  1842  appeared  a  thin  volume  entitled 

POEMS  ON  SLAVERY, 

composed  during  a  return  voyage  from  Europe  in  1842 
(the  summer  of  this  year  having  been  passed  by  Mr. 


66  HENRY   WADSWORTB  LONGFELLOW. 

Longfellow  at  Boppard  on  the  Rhine).  At  a  meeting 
of  the  Cambridge  Sunday  Club,  shortly  after  Mr.  Long 
fellow's  death,  a  gentleman  who  had  had  access  to 
unpublished  letters  of  Charles  Sumner  during  the 
editing  of  Mr.  Sumner's  complete  works  remarked 
that  in  these  unpublished  letters  were  many  urgent  ap 
peals  from  Mr.  Sumner  to  Mr.  Longfellow  that  he  would 
write  some  stirring  anti-slavery  poems.  Longfellow, 
like  Sumner,  was  by  nature  (it  is  needless  to  say) 
a  peace-man;  and  it  was  late  before  he  responded  to 
his  friend's  requests.  The  letters,  however,  show  that 
Sumner  was  highly  gratified  with  the  Poems  on  Slavery 
when  they  did  appear.  Longfellow's  poems,  while 
spirited,  are  not  considered  equal  to  the  war-poems 
of  Whittier,  or  the  Drum-Taps  of  Whitman,  which 
won  so  much  praise  in  Europe.  But  his  views  on 
slavery  were  far  in  advance  of  the  prevalent  thought 
and  sentiment  of  the  day.  When  the  poet's  works 
were  reprinted  in  Philadelphia,  the  Poems  on  Slavery 
were  omitted  by  the  publishers,  without  any  authoriza 
tion,  and  for  political  reasons. 

THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 

In  1843  appeared  The  Spanish  Student,  a  play  in 
three  acts  (Cambridge).  The  popular  song  entitled 
Serenade,  and  more  familiarly  known  by  its  first  line, 
Stars  of  the  Summer  Night,  appears  in  this  play,  or 
poem  as  it  should  more  properly  be  called.  The  follow 
ing  are  some  of  its  stanzas  :  — 

Stars  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light  I 

She  sleeps  I 
My  lady  sleeps  I 
Sleeps  I 


THE    SPANISH    STUDENT.  67 

Moon  of  the  summer  night  1 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light  I 

She  sleeps  1 
My  lady  sleeps  1 
Sleeps  I 

Wind  of  the  summer  night  1 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light  1 

She  sleeps  1 
My  lady  sleeps  1 
Sleeps  1 

Of  The  Spanish  Student,  the  critic  Edwin  Percy 
Whipple  said,  "  In  this  poem  the  affluence  of  his  imagi 
nation  in  images  of  grace,  grandeur,  and  beauty  is 
most  strikingly  manifest.  The  objection  to  it  as  a  play 
is  its  lack  of  skill  or  power  in  the  dramatic  exhibition 
of  character;  but  read  merely  as  a  poem,  cast  in  the 
form  of  a  dialogue,  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in 
American  literature.  None  of  his  other  pieces  so  well 
illustrate  all  his  poetical  faculties,  —  his  imagination, 
his  fancy,  his  sentiment,  and  his  manner.  It  seems 
to  comprehend  the  whole  extent  of  his  genius."  This 
was  written,  it  must  be  remembered,  almost  in  the  in 
fancy  of  our  literature. 

The  verdict  of  other  critics  has  by  no  means  been  so 
favorable.  Poe,  in  one  of  his  terrible  pieces  of  ratio 
cination  and  steel-cold  logic,  asserts  that  The  Spanish 
Student  has  originality  neither  in  thesis,  incidents,  nor 
manner  of  treatment.  The  theme  is  taken  from  La 
Gitanilla  of  Cervantes.  Of  the  incidents  Poe  says 
that  there  is  not  one,  from  the  first  page  to  the  last, 
which  he  would  not  "  undertake  to  find  boldly  at  ten 


68  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

minutes'  notice  in  some  one  of  the  thousand  and  one 
comedies  of  intrigue  attributed  to  Calderon  and  Lope 
de  Vega;"  that  in  treating  his  subject  he  "has  jumbled 
together  the  quaint  and  stilted  tone  of  the  old  English 
dramatists  with  the  degagSe  air  of  Cervantes,"  and  that 
his  "  Chispa  discourses  pure  Sancho  Panza." 

Poe  shows  the  dramatic  inconsistencies  and  improba- 
bili ties  of  the  plot,  points  out  a  few  instances  of  tau 
tology  and  bad  grammar,  and  concludes  as  follows : 
"  Upon  the  whole,  we  regret  that  Professor  Longfellow 
has  written  this  work,  and  feel  especially  vexed  that  he 
has  committed  himself  by  its  publication.  Only  when 
regarded  as  a  mere  poem  can  it  be  said  to  have  merit 
of  any  kind.  For,  in  fact,  it  is  only  when  we  separate 
the  poem  from  the  drama,  that  the  passages  we  have 
commended  as  beautiful  can  be  understood  to  have 
beauty.  We  are  not  too  sure,  indeed,  that  a  4  dramatic 
poem '  is  not  a  flat  contradiction  in  terms.  At  all 
events,  a  man  of  true  genius  (and  such  Mr.  Longfellow 
unquestionably  is)  has  no  business  with  these  hybrid 
and  paradoxical  compositions.  Let  a  poem  be  a  poem 
only ;  let  a  play  be  a  play,  and  nothing  more.  As  for 
The  Spanish  Student,  its  thesis  is  unoriginal ;  its  in 
cidents  are  antique  ;  its  plot  is  no  plot ;  its  characters 
have  no  character:  in  short,  it  is  little  better  than  a 
play  upon  words  to  style  it  4  A  Play '  at  all." 

It  is  a  noteworthy  fact,  in  view  of  such  criticisms  as 
these,  that  in  fourteen  years  thirty-eight  thousand  copies 
of  The  Spanish  Student  were  sold. 

In  1844  Mr.  Longfellow  edited  "  The  Waif:  a  Col 
lection  of  Poems."  It  was  published  at  Cambridge  by 
John  Owen.  It  is  a  very  slight  volume.  It  was  re 
printed  in  England  in  1849.  In  1845  also  appeared 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  EUROPE.  60 


THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF   EUROPE, 

edited,  with  a  preface,  by  Mr.  Longfellow,  and  published 
in  Philadelphia.  It  contained  selections  from  three  hun 
dred  and  sixty  authors,  translated  from  ten  different 
languages;  Mr.  Longfellow  himself  gave  translations 
from  eight  languages.  Professor  Francis  Bowen  said  of 
it,  "  In  this  great  crowd  of  translations  by  different  hands, 
certainly  very  few  appear  equal  to  Professor  Longfel 
low's  in  point  of  fidelity,  elegance,  and  finish."  The 
Irish  Quarterly  Review  said,  "Longfellow's  translations 
from  the  German,  Swedish,  Spanish,  French,  Danish, 
Italian,  and  Anglo-Saxon  possess  in  a  very  high  degree 
that  elegance  of  diction  and  thoroughly  classical  coloring 
for  which  all  his  other  poems  are  remarkable."  The 
preface  to  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe  begins 
with  this  quaint  extract  from  the  writings  of  the  old 
Spanish  Jew,  Alfonso  de  Baena  :  "  The  art  of  poetry, 
the  gay  science,  is  a  most  subtle  and  most  delightful  sort 
of  writing  or  composition.  It  is  sweet  and  pleasurable 
to  those  who  propound  and  to  those  who  reply,  to 
utterers  and  to  hearers.  This  science,  or  the  wisdom 
or  knowledge  dependent  on  it,  can  only  be  possessed, 
received,  and  acquired  by  the  inspired  spirit  of  the  Lord 
God;  who  communicates  it,  sends  it,  and  influences 
by  it  those  alone  who  well  and  wisely,  and  discreetly 
and  correctly,  can  create  and  arrange,  and  compose  and 
polish,  and  scan  and  measure  feet,  and  pauses,  and 
rhymes,  and  syllables,  and  accents,  by  dextrous  art,  by 
varied  and  by  novel  arrangement  of  words.  And  even 
then,  so  sublime  is  the  understanding  of  this  art,  and 
so  difficult  its  attainment,  that  it  can  only  be  learned, 
possessed,  reached,  and  known  to  the  man  who  is  of 


70  HEJfftY  WADSWOEttt 

noble  and  of  ready  invention,  elevated  and  pure  discre 
tion,  sound  and  steady  judgment ;  who  has  seen,  and 
heard,  and  read  many  and  divers  books  and  writings ; 
who  understands  all  languages;  who  has,  moreover, 
dwelt  in  the  courts  of  kings  and  nobles ;  and  who  has 
witnessed  and  practised  many  heroic  feats.  Finally,  he 
must  be  of  high  birth,  courteous,  calm,  chivalric,  gra 
cious  ;  he  must  be  polite  and  graceful ;  he  must  possess 
honey,  and  sugar,  and  salt,  and  facility  and  gayety  in 
his  discourse." 

THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES,  AND  OTHER  POEMS, 

was  the  title  of  a  volume  published  in  Boston  in  1846 
(the  first  of  his  books  to  be  published  there).  It  con 
tained  the  poem  To  a  Child :  — 

O  child  I  O  new-born  denizen 

Of  life's  great  city !  on  thy  head 

The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed, 

Like  a  celestial  benison ! 

Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand, 

And  with  thy  little  hand 

Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 

Into  the  future's  undiscovered  land. 

By  what  astrology  of  fear  or  hope 

Dare  I  to  cast  thy  horoscope ! 

Like  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears ; 

A  little  strip  of  silver  light, 

And  widening  outward  into  night, 

The  shadowy  disk  of  future  years. 

Here  also  appeared  Seaweed,  doubtless  inspired  by 
some  scene  at  Nahant,  the  poet's  seaside  residence :  — 

When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 
Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 


THE  OLD   CLOCK  ON   THE  STAIRS.  71 

Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks. 

Other  songs  in  the  collection  are  The  Day  is  Doue, 
and  The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs :  — 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw ; 
And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 
"  Forever  —  never ! 
Never  —  forever  1 " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 
Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor, 
And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door,— 
"  Forever  —  never  1 
Never  —  forever  1 " 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night ; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow ; 
And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  I 
Never  —  forever ! " 

It  is  generally  believed  that  the  old  clock  referred  to 
irf  the  one  which  now  stands  on  the  landing  half-way 
up  the  stairs  in  the  old  Craigie  House  at  Cambridge, 
and  which  has  been  gazed  upon  with  wonder  and 
veneration  by  so  many  visitors.  This,  however,  is  a 


72  HENRY   WADSWOKTH  LONGFELLOW. 

mistake.  "The  original  clock,  which  served  as  the  in 
spiration  of  the  poem,  is  an  heirloom  in  the  Appleton 
family,  and  stands  at  present  at  the  head  of  the  stair 
case  in  the  home  of  Mr.  Thomas  G.  Appleton,  No.  10 
Commonwealth  Avenue,  in  Boston.  Mrs.  Longfellow's 
mother  was  a  Miss  Gold  of  Pittsfield;  and  the  clock 
originally  stood  in  the  family  mansion  at  that  place, 
where  the  Appleton  family  passed  some  ten  summers. 
When  Mr.  Appleton  decided  to  remove  to  the  seaside 
in  1853,  he  sold  the  old  home,  the  purchaser  being  a 
Mr.  Plunkett.  At  this  time  Mr.  Thomas  G.  Appleton 
insisted  that  the  clock  should  not  be  sold  with  the 
house ;  and  his  wishes  were  complied  with,  although 
Mrs.  Plunkett  was  very  unwilling  to  give  it  up."  This 
clock  is  in  an  excellent  state  of  preservation,  and 
its  appearance  would  hardly  indicate  its  age.  Mr. 
Longfellow  bought  a  handsome  old-fashioned  clock  at 
an  auction-sale  in  Boston  several  years  ago,  and  this  is 
the  one  now  standing  on  the  staircase  in  the  Craigie 
House.  Visitors  naturally  associated  the  clock  with  the 
poem,  and  it  was  not  always  possible  or  convenient 
to  correct  the  error.  Another  clock  of  similar  appear 
ance,  which  now  stands  in  the  old  family  mansion  in 
Pittsfield,  has  also  been  erroneously  taken  for  the  clock 
mentioned  in  the  poem.  The  poem  has  no  reference 
to  incidents  in  the  history  of  the  Appleton  family,  but 
was  written  by  Mr.  Longfellow  while  spending  a  sum 
mer  in  Pittsfield.  One  of  his  friends  asked  the  poet 
one  day  if  he  would  not  write  a  poem  upon  some  sub 
ject  which  he  had  in  mind.  Mr.  Longfellow  replied 
that  he  thought  he  had  an  idea,  and  the  next  day  pro 
duced  the  poem  as  it  now  stands. 

In  1847  Mr.  Longfellow  edited  another  small  collee- 


ORIGIN  OF  EVANGELINE.  73 

tion  of  poems  called  "  The  Estray,"  and  in  the  same 
year  also  appeared 

EVANGELINE,  A  TALE  OF  ACADIE. 

Of  this  poem  upwards  of  thirty-seven  thousand  copies 
were  sold  in  ten  years :  the  whole  reading  world  was 
full  of  enthusiasm  over  it.  It  was  reviewed  by  The 
North-American  Review,  The  American  Whig  Review 
(in  which  Poe  had  published  his  Raven  a  few  years 
previous),  The  New-Englander,  The  Southern  Liter 
ary  Messenger,  Brownson's  Quarterly,  and  The  Eclec 
tic.  In  England  it  was  favorably  reviewed  in  Eraser's, 
The  Irish  Quarterly,  Blackwood's,  The  Athenseum, 
and  The  Examiner.  The  picture  of  Evangeline,  which, 
not  long  after  the  publication  of  the  poem,  was '  de 
signed  by  Faed,  is  universally  known  and  admired,  and 
gave  Mr.  Longfellow  himself  much  pleasure. 

The  origin  of  the  poem  is  this :  Hawthorne  one  day 
came  to  dine  with  Mr.  Longfellow,  bringing  with  him 
a  friend  from  Salem.  While  at  dinner  the  friend  of 
Hawthorne  said  that  he  had  been  trying  to  persuade 
him  to  write  a  story  about  the  banishment  of  the 
Acadians,  founded  upon  the  life  of  a  young  Acadian 
girl  who  got  separated  from  her  lover,  and  spent  the 
rest  of  her  life  in  searching  for  him.  Hawthorne 
thought  that  it  would  hardly  do  for  a  story,  and  gave 
it  to  Longfellow  for  a  poem.  The  poet,  when  in  Phila 
delphia,  had  his  fancy  touched  by  the  hospital  on 
Spruce  Street,  with  its  high-walled  grounds  and  an 
tique  appearance ;  and  he  decided  to  locate  there  the 
final  scene  of  the  poem,  namely,  the  meeting  between 
Gabriel  and  Evangeline. 

There  is  a  passage  in  Hawthorne's  "  American  Note- 


74  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Books "  which  gives  the  kernel  of  the  story  as  Haw 
thorne  had  it :  "  H.  L.  C heard  from  a  French  Ca 
nadian  a  story  of  a  young  couple  in  Acadia.  On  their 
marriage-day  all  the  men  of  the  province  were  sum 
moned  to  assemble  in  the  church  to  hear  a  proclamation. 
When  assembled,  they  were  all  seized  and  shipped  oft" 
to  be  distributed  through  New  England,  among  them 
the  new  bridegroom.  His  bride  set  off  in  search  of  him, 
wandered  about  New  England  all  her  lifetime,  and  at 
last,  when  she  was  old,  she  found  her  bridegroom  on 
his  death-bed.  The  shock  was  so  great  that  it  killed 
her  likewise." 

One  who  is  familiar  with  the  place,  in  a  private  note 
to  the  writer,  speaks  of  the  scenery  which  probably  in 
spired  the  opening  stanzas  of  Evangeline.  He  says :  — 

"Longfellow  often  visited,  when  a  boy,  the  old 
Wadsworth  mansion  in  Hiram,  which  is  still  standing, 
and  loved  to  ramble  over  it  and  look  out  from  the  bal 
cony  on  the  roof  upon  the  woods  and  hills  in  the  midst 
of  which  it  is  situated,  and  especially  upon  the  river 
winding  through  the  beautiful  valley.  Near  by  the 
Great  Falls  of  the  Saco  tumble  over  the  steep  ledges, 
and  in  spring  present  a  grand  spectacle  with  the  logs 
leaping  furiously  over  each  other  and  plunging  into  the 
foaming  abyss  below.  As  I  have  sat  watching  this 
tumult  of  waters,  how  often  have  I  thought  of  Long 
fellow  drinking  in  the  scene  with  all  a  boy's  enthusiasm ; 
and  the  prelude  to  the  Evangeline  came  forcibly  to 
mind: 

*  This  is  the  forest  primeval.     The  murmuring  pines  and  the  hem 
locks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  indistinct  in  the  twilight, 
Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,' 


EVANGELINE.  75 

And  as  I  listened  to  the  roar  of  the  faLs  and  the  mur 
mur  of  the  forest,  I  could  but  think  it  was  here  Long 
fellow  took  in  the  scene  that  in  after-years  he  so 
beautifully  wrought  into  his  imperishable  song." 

The  Scotch  author  Gilfillan  has  said,  "Next  to  Ex 
celsior,  and  the  Psalm  of  Life,  we  are  disposed  to 
rank  Evangeliiie.  Indeed,  as  a  work  of  art  it  is  supe 
rior  to  both,  and  to  all  that  Longfellow  has  written  in 
verse.  .  .  .  Nothing  can  be  more  truly  conceived  or 
more  tenderly  expressed  than  the  picture  of  that  primi 
tive  Nova  Scotia,  and  its  warm-hearted,  hospitable, 
happy,  and  pious  inhabitants.  We  feel  the  air  of  the 
fore-world  around  us.  The  light  of  the  golden  age  — 
its  joy,  music,  and  poetry  —  is  shining  above.  There 
are  evenings  of  summer  or  autumn-tide  so  exquisitely 
beautiful,  so  complete  in  their  own  charms,  that  the 
entrance  of  the  moon  is  felt  almost  as  a  painful  and 
superfluous  addition.  It  is  like  a  candle  dispelling  the 
weird  darkness  of  a  twilight  room.  So  we  feel  at  first 
as  if  Evangeline  when  introduced  were  an  excess  of 
loveliness,  an  amiable  eclipse  of  the  surrounding  beau 
ties.  But  even  as  the  moon  by  and  by  vindicates  her 
entrance,  and  creates  her  own  holier  day,  so  with  the 
delicate  and  lovely  heroine  of  this  simple  story:  she 
becomes  the  centre  of  the  entire  scene." 

Eraser's  Magazine  said,  "  This  is  an  American  poem ; 
and  we  hail  its  appearance  with  the  greater  satisfaction, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  the  first  genuine  Castalian  fount  which 
has  burst  from  the  soil  of  America."  The  Metropolitan 
said,  "No  one  with  any  pretensions  to  poetic  feeling 
can  read  its  delicious  portraiture  of  rustic  scenery,  and 
of  a  mode  of  life  long  since  defunct,  without  tho  most 
intense  delight."  President  Charles  King,  of  Columbia 


76  HENRY   WADSWORT11   LONGFELLOW. 

College,  said :  "  The  Evangeline  is  the  most  perfect 
specimen  extant  of  the  rhythm  and  melody  of  the 
English  hexameter."  But  The  [London]  Athenaeum 
thought  that  "  with  the  sorrows  of  Evangeline  a  simpler 
rhythm  would  have  been  more  in  harmony,"  and  sug 
gested  that  the  "real  charm  of  the  tale  lay  in  its  insu 
lated  pictures  of  scenery."  Speaking  in  a  recent  issue 
of  the  metre  of  Evangeline,  The  London  Daily  News 
thought  it  a  failure,  but  said :  "  Evangeline  contains 
one  line,  — 

'  Chanting  the  Hundredth  Psalm  —  that  grand  old  Puritan  anthem,* 

which  is  metrically  perfect ;  but  this  is  an  isolated  in 
stance,  and  may  be  fairly  confronted  with  another  verse 
from  the  same  poem,  — 

'Children's  children  sat  on  his  knee,  and  heard  his  great  watch 
tick,' 

which  is  almost  as  bad  as  it  can  be." 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  has  said  of  Evangeline : 
"  Of  the  longer  poems  of  our  chief  singer  I  should 
not  hesitate  to  select  '  Evangeline '  as  the  masterpiece, 
and  I  think  the  general  verdict  of  opinion  would  con 
firm  my  choice.  The  German  model  which  it  follows 
in  its  measure  and  the  character  of  its  story  was  itself 
suggested  by  an  earlier  idyl.  If  Dorothea  was  the 
mother  of  Evangeline,  Louise  was  the  mother  of  Doro 
thea.  And  what  a  beautiful  creation  is  the  Acadian 
maiden  !  From  the  first  line  of  the  poem,  —  from  its 
first  words,  —  we  read  as  we  would  float  down  a  broad 
and  placid  river,  murmuring  softly  against  its  banks, 
heaven  over  it,  and  the  glory  of  the  unspoiled  wilder 
ness  all  around. 

t  This  is  the  forest  primeval/ 


EVANGELINE.  77 

The  words  are  already  as  familiar  as 

4  Mfjviv  ueide,  Qtu,' 

or 

*  Anna  virumque  cano/ 

The  hexameter  has  been  often  criticised ;  but  I  do  not 
believe  any  other  measure  could  have  told  that  lovely 
story  with  such  effect  as  we  feel  when  carried  along  the 
tranquil  current  of  these  brimming,  slow-moving,  soul- 
satisfying  lines.  Imagine  for  one  moment  a  story  like 
this  minced  into  octosyllabics.  The  poet  knows  better 
than  his  critics  the  length  of  step  which  best  befits  his 
music."  A  Blackwood  critic  said,  "  It  is  a  peculiarity 
of  this  sweet  singer,  that  his  best  strains  are  always 
wistful,  longing,  true  voices  of  the  night." 

Mr.  F.  Blake  Crofton  of  Nova  Scotia  has  in  The 
Literary  World  an  article  on  Evangeline,  from  which 
the  following  extracts  are  made  :  — 

"  A  Nova  Scotian  doctor,  with  a  practice  involving 
frequent  long  drives,  observed  to  the  writer  that  he 
seldom  passed  through  a  forest  of  native  firs  without 
thinking  of  the  '"murmuring  pines  and  the  hemlocks' 
in  the  first  line  of  Evangeline.  He  held  that  the  epi 
thet  suited  these  particular  trees  better  than  any  others. 
Whether  his  idea  was  objectively  true,  or  only  fanciful, 
our  senses  are  not  fine  enough  to  decide.  In  the  latter 
case,  however,  the  tribute  to  the  poet's  art  is  quite  as 
great  as  in  the  former.  The  physician's  fancy  then  be 
comes  another  of  the  many  instances  that  prove  how 
much  the  coloring  of  Evangeline  tinges  the  feelings 
and  views  of  Nova  Scotians  about  Nova  Scotia. 

"The  first  appearance  of  Evangeline  gave  rise  to 
sundry  warm  efforts  to  vindicate  Gov.  Lawrence's  treat 
ment  of  the  Acadians.  We  have  now  before  us  three 


78     UENEY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

histories  of  this  Province  published  within  the  last 
decade ;  and  they  unite  in  condemning  the  manner  of 
the  expulsion,  —  'at  which,'  says  one  historian,  'the 
moral  instincts  of  mankind  shudder.'  Evangeline  has 
proved,  in  fact,  one  of  the  decisive  poems  of  the 
world.  The  most  sanguine  partisans,  we  think,  have 
realized  the  impossibility  of  stemming  the  flood  of  pity 
it  has  created  for  the  Acadians,  by  pleading  the  politi 
cal  expediency  of  removing  them  somewhere.  The 
people  of  the  Province,  albeit  prosaic  in  the  main, 
glory  in  the  soft  poetic  halo  Mr.  Longfellow  has 
thrown  round  their  rugged  coasts.  And  they  have  no 
inclination  to  depreciate  the  Acadians.  They  have 
their  lands,  and  think  they  see  some  distant  prospect 
of  inheriting  their  enviable  reputation  too  ! 

"  The  tragedy  of  le  grand  derangement,  as  the  Acadi 
ans  termed  their  expatriation,  is,  in  truth,  thrown  into 
more  striking  relief  by  the  great  dissimilarity  of  the 
men  who  occupy  their  fields.  A  genial  population  has 
been  replaced  by  an  austere  one  (we  use  the  epithets 
comparatively,  and  admit  thousands  of  exceptions)  ;  a 
chaste  by  a  squeamish,  a  temperate  by  a  c  temperance  ' 
people  ;  a  people  that  preferred  practising  virtues,  by 
a  people  that  prefers  professing  them.  Raynal  and 
Longfellow  represent  the  Acadians  as  singularly  peace 
ful  among  themselves.  Governors  Armstrong  and 
Lawrence,  writing  before  the  expulsion,  called  them 
4  litigious.'  There  is  no  dispute  about  the  litigiousness 
of  their  successors.  Stern  Scotch  Presbyterianism  and 
New  England  Puritanism,  unmellowed  by  the  trans 
planting,  are  foils  to  the  gentle,  undictatorial  religion 
of  Father  Felician.  There  is,  indeed,  a  little  Roman 
Catholic  chapel  in  the  valley  of  Graiid-Pre* ;  but  the 


EVANGELINE.  79 

picturesque  superstitions  of  Rome  are  scowlingly  toler 
ated  in  the  surrounding  country.  4  The  common  drink 
of  the  Acadians,'  says  the  Abb£  Raynal,  ;  was  beer  and 
cider,  to  which  they  sometimes  added  rum.'  Nova 
Scotians  warm  their  colder  temperaments  almost  ex 
clusively  with  strong  spirits,  and  do  so  unconvivially 
and  furtively.  A  modern  maiden  who  bore 

4  flagons  of  home-brewed  ale' 
to  the  reapers,  or  filled  for  her  father's  guests 

'  the  pewter  tankard  with  home-brewed 
Nut-brown  ale,  that  was  famed  for  its  strength  in  the  village,' 

would  be  charged  with  every  sin  the  ingenuity  of  the 
scandal-mongers  could  invent. 

'  Only  along  the  shore  of  the  mournful  and  misty  Atlantic 
Linger  a  few  Acadian  peasants.' 

"Small  communities  of  these  returned  exiles  still 
exist  at  Clare,  at  Minudie,  at  Chezzelcook,  at  Tracadie, 
at  Arichat,  in  parts  of  Prince  Edward  Island,  and  on 
the  north  coast  of  New  Brunswick,  speaking  a  corrupt 
French  patois  in  most  cases,  and  preserving  some  of  the 
traits  depicted  by  Raynal.  If  their  maidens  still 

*  by  the  evening  fire  repeat  Evangeline's  story,' 

they  repeat  Mr.  Longfellow's  own  version  of  it  now. 
His  tale  was  gracefully  translated  into  French  alexan 
drines  in  1865  by  a  Canadian,  M.  Le  May.  4The 
great  poet  of  America,'  says  a  writer  in  the  Canadian 
Monthly,  'occupies  a  warm  corner  in  the  French 
Canadian  heart ' ;  and  Frechette,  the  first  foreign  poet 
crowned  by  the  French  Academy,  has  paid  him  more 
than  one  liberal  tribute  of  song." 


80  EENBY  WA.DSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


KAVANAGH, 

a  prose  tale  of  New-England  life  and  manners,  ap 
peared  in  1849.  It  was  written  by  the  poet  during  a 
summer  that  he  passed  at  the  old  Melville  House  in 
Pittsfield,  Mass.  The  house  was  situated  half  a  mile 
from  the  village,  on  the  road  to  Lenox,  and  very  neai 
Dr.  Holmes's  house.  Kavanagh  is  replete  with  de 
scriptions  of  the  mountainous  scenery  of  that  part  oi 
Massachusetts. 

Of  this  book  James  Russell  Lowell  said  (North- 
American  Review,  July,  1849),  "Kavanagh  is,  as  fai 
as  it  goes,  an  exact  daguerrotype  of  New-England 
life.  We  say  daguerrotype,  because  we  are  conscious 
of  a  certain  absence  of  motion  and  color,  which  detract 
somewhat  from  the  vivacity,  though  not  from  the  truth, 
of  the  -representation.  From  Mr.  Pendexter  with  his 
horse  and  chaise,  to  Miss  Manchester  painting  the  door 
of  her  house,  the  figures  are  faithfully  after  nature." 

"  The  story,  too,  is  remarkably  sweet  and  touching. 
The  two  friends  with  their  carrier-dove  correspondence 
give  us  a  pretty  glimpse  into  the  trans-boarding-school 
disposition  of  the  maiden  mind,  which  will  contrive  to 
carry  every-day  life  to  romance,  since  romance  will  not 
come  to  it." 

Lowell  further  says,  "  If  we  hold  Kavanagh  strictly 
to  its  responsibility  as  a  4  tale,'  we  shall  be  obliged  to 
condemn  in  it  a  disproportion  of  parts  to  the  whole, 
and  an  elaboration  of  particulars  at  the  expense  of 
unity. 

"It  is  a  story  told  to  us,  as  it  were,  while  we  lie 
under  a  tree,  and  the  ear  is  willing  at  the  same  time 
to  take  in  other  sounds.  The  gurgle  of  the  brook,  the 


THE    GOLDEN    LEGEND.  81 

rustle  of  the  leaves,  even  noises  of  life  and  toil  (if 
they  be  distant)  such  as  the  rattle  of  the  white- 
topped  wagon  and  the  regular  pulse  of  the  thresher's 
flail,  reconcile  themselves  to  the  main  theme,  and  re- 
enforce  it  with  a  harmonious  accompaniment." 

THE  SEASIDE  AND   THE  FIRESIDE. 

In  1850  appeared  The  Seaside  and  the  Fireside, 
a  further  collection  of  his  poems,  among  which  was  The 
Building  of  the  Ship,  a  remarkably  powerful  work,  equal 
to  Schiller's  Song  of  the  Bell. 

THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND 

was  published  in  1851.  In  Homes  of  American  Poets, 
George  William  Curtis  speaks  thus  of  the  work: 
"  In  this  poem  he  has  obeyed  the  highest  human 
ity  of  the  poet's  calling  by  revealing — what  alone 
the  poet  can  —  not  coldly,  but  with  the  glowing  and 
affluent  reality  of  life,  this  truth :  that  the  same  human 
heart  has  throbbed  in  all  ages,  and  under  all  circum 
stances,  with  the  same  pulse,  and  that  the  devotion  of 
love  is  for  ever  and  ever,  and  from  the  beginning,  the 
salvation  of  man." 

From  Blackwood's  Magazine  for  February,  1852,  the 
following  is  extracted :  "  We  have  no  hesitation  in 
expressing  our  opinion  that  there  is  nearly  as  much 
fine  poetry  in  Mr.  Longfellow's  Golden  Legend  as  in 
the  celebrated  drama  of  Goethe.  .  .  .  We  have  already, 
at  the  commencement  of  this  paper,  expressed  our  de 
cided  objection  to  the  machinery  employed  by  Mr. 
Longfellow.  It  is  the  reverse  of  original,  being  now 
very  hackneyed;  and  it  is  absurdly  disproportionate 
to  the  object  for  which  it  is  introduced.  .  .  .  Occasion- 


#2  HENEY   WADSWOBTU  LONGFELLOW. 

ally,  whilst  retaining  rhyme  and  the  semblance  of 
metre,  Mr.  Longfellow  is  betrayed  into  great  extrava 
gance." 

Ruskin  said,  "Longfellow  in  The  Golden  Legend 
has  entered  more  closely  into  the  temper  of  the  monk, 
for  good  and  for  evil,  than  ever  yet  theological  writer 
or  historian,  though  they  may  have  given  their  life's 
labor  to  the  analysis." 

The  following  is  from  an  article  by  Mr.  N.  II.  Cham 
berlain  of  Cambridge,  in  The  Literary  World :  — 

"  Longfellow  is  undoubtedly  our  American  Minne 
singer,  with  no  rival  on  either  side  the  Atlantic.  He 
belongs  to  the  morning,  the  summer,  and  the  sunshine ; 
and  shuns,  in  his  authorship,  the  Dantesque,  the  gloom, 
and  the  flame.  If  ever  forced  to  paint  the  gates  of 
the  grave,  he  would  be  sure  to  plant  some  spring  vio 
let  or  anemone  by  the  grim  portals,  and  scatter  along 
the  path  to  it  some  tender  mementos  of  a  weak,  cling 
ing,  undying  human  affection.  The  roots  of  his  nature, 
saturate  with  mercy,  good-will,  and  beauty,  choke  out 
from  his  song  the  lower  and  coarser  qualities  of  our 
human  life.  That  sister  of  Beauty,  Purity,  dwells 
everywhere  in  his  song;  and  the  landscapes  of  his 
poetry,  even  to  their  flora  and  grasses,  in  a  purity 
approaching  to  austerity,  remind  one  of  the  vestal 
chasteness  of  Alpine  flowers.  Only  the  sunshine  of 
his  gracious  nature  drives  away  the  Alpine  gloom. 

"  The  Golden  Legend  is  in  point.  It  is  a  brief 
song  of  mediaeval  life  in  its  aspects  of  religion  and 
inonasticism.  It  is  only  after  due  inspection  that  we 
find  it  to  be  a  singularly  inclusive  story  of  that  life  int 
its  dominant  features.  Undoubtedly,  in  his  plan  he 
excludes  some  characteristics  ;  and  if,  with  his  mediieval 


TlIE  GOLDEN  LEGEND.  83 

lore,  more  profound,  perhaps,  than  that  of  any  other 
American,  Longfellow  had  been  led  to  write  a  mediaeval 
story  in  prose,  after  the  manner  of  Hyperion,  he 
would  have  given  us  a  more  encyclopaedic  narrative 
of  the  aesthetics  and  ethics  of  that  singular  age.  The 
Golden  Legend  introduces  us  to  the  monasteries  and 
churches  when  they  had  now  been  long  established, 
and  were  ripe  towards  decay. 

"  He  has  not  told  us  of  the  wandering  monks,  hutted 
by  the  river-side  among  German  or  Celtic  savages,  tilling 
land  with  their  own  toil,  and  preaching  under  the  great 
oaks  to  the  painted  and  fair-haired  barbarians  in  those 

better  days  of 

*  Crosier  of  wood 
And  bishop  of  gold,' 

but  rather  of  the  comfortable  monk,  with  his  stately 
cloister  and  well-filled  cellars,  fed  by  the  largess  of  dead 
generations  of  the  pious,  when 

1  We  have  changed 
That  law  so  good 
To  crosier  of  gold 
And  bishop  of  wood.' 

"The  Golden  Legend,  which  is  neither  comedy  nor 
tragedy,  but  an  historic  melodrama,  has  a  very  simple 
pl»»t,  elastic  almost  to  looseness.  It  serves  as  a  thread 
for  the  stringing  of  pearls,  only  the  thread  itself  leads 
tho  thoughtful  into  the  presence  of  profound  problems 
of  life  and  duty,  pointed  at  but  not  dissected,  as  Mr. 
Longfellow's  habit  is.  The  three  chief  characters  are  a 
prince,  a  peasant-girl,  and  Lucifer,  whom  the  poet  in 
charity  has  painted  hardly  as  black  as  he  is.  The  story 
opens  around  the  spire  of  Strasburg  Cathedral,  with 


84  HENRY  WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

devils  raging  in  the  night  and  storm  to  destroy  that 
house  of  God.  Here,  as  everywhere,  Longfellow  shows 
that  exquisite  discernment  of  the  spiritual  in  material 
things,  as  where  he  notes  that  the  apostles  are  in  stone 
over  the  great  portal  to  show  the  way  in  —  angels  inside, 
and  devils  and  brutes  outside,  all  in  stone  —  as  is  e  yer 
the  church  and  the  world ;  and  even  when  in  his  note 
of  explanation  he  makes  the  choir  sing  a  Gregorian 
chant,  which  of  all  music,  as  running  to  monotones,  has 
most  the  sense  of  eternity  in  it,  he  shows  his  insight  and 
craft," 

THE   SONG    OF    HIAWATHA 

followed  The  Golden  Legend,  appearing  in  1855.  Its 
success  was  phenomenal,  ten  thousand  copies  having 
been  sold  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  week  after  publica 
tion,  and  thirty  thousand  at  the  end  of  half  a  year. 
The  author  called  it  "an  Indian  Edda."  The  scene 
was  laid  among  the  Ojibways,  on  the  southern  shore  of 
Lake  Superior,  between  the  Grand  Sable  and  the  Pic 
tured  Rocks.  Four  months  after  its  appearance  it  was 
translated  into  German  by  Adolph  Bottger,  and  was 
soon  hailed  with  acclamations  by  the  entire  European 
world  as  it  already  had  been  by  the  New  World.  Two 
months  after  the  appearance  of  Bottger's  translation, 
another  was  published  by  Ferdinand  Freiligrath.  It 
had  been  printed  in  the  original  English  at  Leipzig  be 
fore  the  translations  appeared.  Hiawatha  was  written 
in  unalliterative  rhymeless  trochaics,  a  novelty  which 
the  poet's  readers  accepted  with  some  wincing  and 
shrugging  of  shoulders.  Sir  John  Bo  wring,  in  review 
ing  Hiawatha,  said,  "  Most  of  the  poetry  of  the  Finns  is 
written  in  that  peculiar  metre  to  which  Longfellow  has 
given  a  certain  popularity  in  his  Hiawatha ;  but  I  bel« 


HIAWATHA.  85 

lieve  I  may  take  credit  to  myself  for  having  been  the 
first  to  introduce  it  into  our  language  in  an  article 
which  appeared  in  The  Westminster  Review  of  April, 
1827."  . 

Perhaps  no  poem  in  the  English  language  was  ever  so 
immediately  popular.  It  furnished  topics  to  the  sculp 
tor,  the  painter,  the  litterateur,  the  ethnologist,  and  the 
philologist.  In  The  Literary  World,  Edward  Everett 
Hale  has  spoken  of  the  origin  of  Hiawatha  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

"  A  floating  anecdote  gives  this  history  of  the  origin 
of  Hiawatha.  It  is  said  that  one  of  Mr.  Longfellow's 
Harvard  pupils,  of  one  of  those  early  classes  which  were 
favored  with  much  of  his  personal  care,  returned  to 
Cambridge  a  few  years  after  graduating,  fresh  from  a 
summer  on  the  plains  among  the  Indians.  Meeting  Pro 
fessor  Longfellow  at  dinner  one  day,  he  eagerly  told  his 
kind  friend  some  of  the  legends  of  lodge  and  camp-fire, 
and  begged  him  to  rescue  them  from  the  extinction 
which  seemed  almost  certain,  by  making  them  the  sub 
ject  of  a  poem.  Now,  Mr.  Longfellow  has  the  historic 
instinct  as  strong  as  any  other  of  the  poetical  instincts. 
To  put  yourself  in  another's  place  is  the  business  of  a 
poet ;  to  be  able  to  do  it  is  the  warrant  of  success  in 
poetry.  Whoever  gave  the  hint,  Mr.  Longfellow  en 
tered  thoroughly  into  Indian  life ;  and  Hiawatha  is 
now  a  handbook,  which  may  be  relied  on,  of  the  best 
Algonkin  legends. 

"  Hundreds,  not  to  say  thousands,  of  people  had  said 
this  very  thing  ought  to  be  done.  Every  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  oration  dwelt  on  the  resources  of  'boundless 
prairies  and  untrodden  forests '  for  poetry.  Campbell 
tried  his  hand  in  'Wyoming;'  Goldsmith  even  put  an 


86  HENliY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

accent  on  the  penult  of  'Niagara;'  Southey  made  a 
failure  in  4  Madoc '  so  far  as  presenting  Indian  life  was 
concerned ;  and  as  for  '  Yamoydens '  arid  similar  forgot 
ten  Indian  poems,  there  is  no  end  to  the  -catalogue. 
Hiawatha  is  wholly  different.  Mr.  Longfellow  took  the 
simplest  and  most  entertaining  of  the  Indian  legends, 
did  not  think  it  his  business  to  improve  upon  them,  nor 
even  to  adapt  them  to  each  other.  He  sang  the  song 
as  an  Indian  singer  would  sing  it. 

"  He  had  the  resource  of  Schoolcraft's  collections  in 
the  line  of  Algonkin  legends.  Schoolcraft  had  the 
advantage  of  marrying  a  half-breed  wife,  —  herself  an 
accomplished  lady,  —  and  of  living  most  of  his  life 
among  the  tribes  of  the  North-west.  As  early  as  1839 
he  published,  from  her  dictation,  two  volumes  called 
4  Algic  Researches,'  which  are  to  this  moment  the  mine 
where  one  finds  the  most  charming  of  these  stories.  No 
nursery  library  is  complete  without  the  book,  for  chil 
dren  cry  for  the  stories  when  they  have  once  tasted. 
And  the  scholar  who  has  selected  the  best  editions  of 
the  Arabian  Nights,  of  Grimm,  and  other  Aryan  folk 
lore,  puts  on  his  shelf  by  the  side  of  them  Schoolcraft's 
Algic  Researches.  The  name,  of  course,  ruined  the 
circulation  of  the  book.  The  public  does  not  know  up 
to  this  hour  that  under  this  cumbrous  name  is  buried 
the  most  charming  collection  of  pure  American  stories. 

"  Afterwards  somebody  persuaded  Congress  to  publish 
some  immense  ornamented  quartos,  with  all  Mr.  School- 
craft's  lore  about  the  Indians.  It  was  none  too  soon  ; 
and  in  those  great  picture-books,  as  in  an  ark  of  safety, 
will  be  found  preserved  all  manner  of  learning  and 
speculation,  the  bad  and  the  good,  about  the  Indian 
tribes  and  their  history.  Like  specks  of  gold  in  these 


HIAWATHA.  87 

great  pans  of  gravel  may  be  found  the  glistening  grains 
of  the  stories  in  the  Algic  Researches. 

"  All  these  pans  of  gravel  has  Mr.  Longfellow  rocked 
and  rocked,  pouring  on  fresh  water  and  cold  and  clear 
all  the  while,  and  has  washed  out  the  pure  gold.  Not 
once  has  he  introduced  the  Harvard  professor  into  the 
lodges  or  on  the  prairies.  Always  it  is  the  Indian  girl 
or  the  Indian  boy  who  sings.  You  have,  pure  and 
unalloyed,  the  Indian  legend. 

"  It  is  said  that  he  has  never  yet  seen  the  Falls  of 
Minnehaha,  as  he  never  saw  the  '  coast '  of  the  Missis 
sippi,  where  Evangeline  lost  her  lover.  All  the  more 
wonderful  is  the  insight  which  paints  for  us  the  one  and 
the  other  better  than  those  do  who  have  seen." 

In  dedicating  his  work  called  "  Algic  Researches  "  to 
Mr.  Longfellow,  Dr.  Henry  R.  Schoolcraft  expressed 
his  admiration  of  Hiawatha  in  respect  of  its  fidelity 
to  local  coloring  and  to  Indian  manners  and  customs. 
No  living  man  was  a  better  judge  of  these  things  than 
Dr.  Schoolcraft. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  appearance  of  Hiawatha,  a 
writer  in  The  National  Intelligencer,  Washington,  D.C., 
published  an  article  charging  the  poet  with  having 
"  borrowed  the  entire  form,  spirit,  and  many  of  the  most 
striking  incidents,  of  Kalevala,  the  great  epic  of  the 
Finns."  A  great  storm  of  controversy  thereupon  broke 
forth.  A  writer  in  The  [London]  Athenaeum  said, 
"  Rhymeless  trochaic  dimeter  is  commonly  used  through 
out  Europe ;  and  Mr.  Longfellow,  in  his  unalliterative 
trochaics,  may  with  as  little  reason  be  said  to  imitate 
the  metre  of  the  Kalevala  as  Philalethes,  in  his  rhyme- 
less  iambic  trimeter  catalectic  version  of  The  Divine 
Comedy,  can  be  asserted  to  represent  the  music  of 


88  HENRY    WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

Dante."  Ferdinand  Freiligrath  said,  in  The  Athense 
um,  that  Hiawatha  "is  written  in  a  modified  Finnish 
metre,  —  modified  by  the  exquisite  feeling  of  the  Ameri 
can  poet  according  to  the  genius  of  the  English  language 
and  to  the  wants  of  modern  taste.  I  feel  perfectly 
convinced,  that,  when  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote  Hiawatha, 
the  sweet  monotony  of  the  trochees  of  Finland,  and  not 
the  mellow  and  melodious  fall  of  those  of  Spain,  vibrated 
in  his  soul."  It  is  thought  with  justice  that  Herr 
Freiligrath's  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  Finnish 
runes  and  with  the  Kalevala  made  him  entirely  com 
petent  to  detect  any  close  imitation  of  the  Finnish  work, 
if  any  such  existed.  That  such  imitation  did  not  exist 
has  now  for  a  long  time  been  thoroughly  established. 

There  was  some  adverse  criticism,  —  much  of  it  true. 
Blackwood's  Magazine  said,  "This  song  is  a  quaint 
chant,  a  happy  illustration  of  manners ;  but  it  lacks  all 
the  important  elements  which  go  to  the  making  of  a 
poem.  We  are  interested,  pleased,  attracted,  yet  per 
fectly  indifferent.  The  measure  haunts  the  ear,  but  not 
the  matter ;  and  we  care  no  more  for  Hiawatha,  and  are 
as  little  concerned  for  the  land  of  the  Ojibways,  as  if 
America's  best  minstrel  had  never  made  a  song." 

"  Das  Ausland  "  said,  "  Anybody  who  has  read  the 
five  thousand  and  odd  verses  of  4  Hiawatha '  has  cer 
tainly  had  enough  of  the  epic  metre,  which  very  soon 
becomes  as  tiresome  to  the  oar  as  the  tune  of  a  barrel- 
organ." 

On  the  other  hand,  The  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
Magazine  thus  expressed  itself :  "  Henceforth  the 
Ojibway  and  the  Dacotah  are  to  us  realities,  —  men  of 
like  passions  with  ourselves.  In  our  own  dear  mother- 
tongue,  their  sweet  singer,  Nawadaha,  has  spoken  to 


HIAWATHA.  89 

us ;  and  the  voice  has  gone  directly  1/orn  his  heart 
to  ours."  A  writer  in  The  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes 
said,  "  The  melody  of  the  verse,  rapid  and  monotonous, 
is  like  the  voice  of  nature,  which  never  fatigues  us 
though  repeating  the  same  sound.  Two  or  three  notes 
comprise  the  whole  music  of  the  poem,  melodious  and 
limited  as  the  song  of  a  bird.  .  .  .  The  feeling  for  nature 
that  pervades  the  poem  is  at  once  most  refined  and  most 
familiar.  The  poet  knows  how  to  give,  as  a  modern, 
voices  to  all  the  inanimate  objects  of  nature ;  he  knows 
the  language  of  birds,  he  understands  the  murmur  of 
the  wind  amongst  the  leaves,  he  interprets  the  voices 
of  the  running  streams ;  and  yet,  notwithstanding  this 
poetic  subtlety,  he  never  turns  aside  to  minute  descrip 
tion,  nor  attempts  to  prolong  by  reflection  the  emotion 
excited.  His  poem,  made  with  exquisite  art,  has  thus 
a  double  characteristic  :  it  is  Homeric  from  the  precision, 
simplicity,  and  familiarity  of  its  images,  and  modern 
from  the  vivacity  of  its  impressions  and  from  the  lyric 
spirit  that  breathes  in  every  page." 

Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  has  thus  expressed  him 
self  concerning  Hiawatha :  "  Suddenly  and  immensely 
popular  in  this  country,  greatly  admired  by  many 
foreign  critics,  imitated  with  perfect  ease  by  any  clever 
schoolboy,  serving  as  a  model  for  metrical  advertise 
ments,  made  fun  of,  sneered  at,  admired,  abused,  but  at 
any  rate  a  picture  full  of  pleasing  fancies  and  melodious 
cadences.  The  very  names  are  jewels  which  the  most 
fastidious  muse  might  be  proud  to  wear.  Coming  from 
the  realm  of  the  Androscoggin  and  of  Moosetukmagun- 
tuk,  how  could  he  have  found  two  such  delicious  names 
as  Hiawatha  and  Minnehaha?  The  eight-syllable  tro 
chaic  verse  of  Hiawatha,  like  the  eight-syllable  iambic 


90  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

verse  of  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  and  others  of  Scott's 
poems,  has  a  fatal  facility,  which  I  have  elsewhere  en 
deavored  to  explain  on  physiological  principles.  The 
recital  of  each  line  uses  up  the  air  of  one  natural  expira 
tion,  so  that  we  read,  as  we  naturally  do,  eighteen  01 
twenty  lines  in  a  minute  without  disturbing  the  normal 
rhythm  of  breathing,  which  is  also  eighteen  or  twenty 
breaths  to  the  minute.  The  standing  objection  to  this 
is,  that  it  makes  the  octosyllabic  verse  too  easy  writing 
and  too  slipshod  reading.  Yet  in  this  most  frequently 
criticised  piece  of  verse-work,  the  poet  has  shown  a 
subtle  sense  of  the  requirements  of  his  simple  story  of 
a  primitive  race,  in  choosing  the  most  fluid  of  measures 
that  lets  the  thought  run  through  it  in  easy  sing-song, 
such  as  oral  tradition  would  be  sure  to  find  on  the  lips 
of  the  story-tellers  of  the  wigwam." 

THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES  STANDISH 

i  I  another  of  the  poet's  purely  American  productions, 
published  at  Boston,  in  1858.  It  touched  the  New 
Fngland  heart,  and  became  at  once  a  favorite.  Like 
E  vangeline,  it  is  written  in  hexameters. 

TALES  OF  A  WAYSIDE  INN. 

In  1863  was  published  the  first  instalment  of  this, 
wHch  was  eventually  to  become  the  poet's  longest 
work. 

These  poems  first  appeared  singly  in  the  magazines, 
aiid  were  afterwards  collected  and  published  in  book 
form,  with  interludes.  The  idea  and  plan  of  the  series 
were  taken  from  Chaucer,  and  in  the  treatment  we  are 
continually  reminded  of  the  Canterbury  Tales.  But 
what  of  that  ?  What  lover  of  sweet  and  quaint  stories 


TALES  OF  A    WAYSIDE  INN.  91 

can  object  to  another  Dan  Chaucer,  "  on  fame's  eternal 
bead-roll,"  as  "  worthy  to  be  filed,"  as  was  his  English 
brother  ?  Longfellow's  forte  lay  in  power  of  translat 
ing,  adapting,  re-stating  quaint  and  picturesque  legends 
in  melodious  verse ;  and  this  gift  of  his  flames  out  in 
all  its  sunset  splendor  and  gorgeousness  in  the  Tales 
of  a  Wayside  Inn.  They  are  capital  reading  foi  a 
rainy  day,  or  for  the  winter  fireside.  They  correspond 
in  length  and  in  antiquarian  character  with  Tennyson's 
Idyls  of  the  King.  The  diction  is  rich  and  varied, 
and  the  handling  of  the  metres  shows  the  mature  poet. 
In  short,  in  these  tales  the  poet  felt  himself  in  his 
element :  the  music  rolls  true  and  perfect,  and  with  the 
power  of  all  the  pedals  and  stops  at  the  musician's  com 
mand.  Story  succeeds  story, — from  the  old  Scandina 
vian  Eddas,  from  Spanish  legends,  and  from  Italian 
sources.  In  The  Theologian's  Tale,  the  poet  tries  his 
hand  once  more  at  the  familiar  task  of  writing  hex 
ameters.  The  following  very  discriminating  and  deli 
cate  criticism  of  this  work  is  taken  from  The  London 
Spectator  for  1863 :  "  Even  in  subjects  there  is  a  greater 
and  a  less  capacity  for  what  we  may  call  the  crystal 
treatment;  and  Longfellow  always  selects  those  in 
which  a  cleai\  still,  pale  beauty  may  be  seen  by  a 
swift,  delicate  vision,  playing  almost  on  the  surface. 
Sometimes  he  is  tempted  by  the  imaginative  purity 
of  a  subject  (as  was  Matthew  Arnold,  in  his  poem  of 
Balder  Dead)  to  forget  that  he  has  not  adequate 
vigor  for  its  grasp,  as  in  the  series  in  this  volume 
on  King  Olaf,  which  is,  in  his  hands,  only  classical, 
while  by  its  essence  it  ought  to  be  forceful.  .  .  .  Long 
fellow's  reputation  was  acquired  by  a  kind  of  rhetorical, 
sentimental  class  of  poem,  which  has,  we  are  happy  to 


92  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

say,  disappeared  from  his  more  recent  volumes, —  the 
4  life  is  real,  life  is  earnest '  sort  of  thing,  and  all  the 
platitudes  of  feverish  youth.  Experience  always  sooner 
or  later  filters  a  genuine  poet  clear  of  that  class  of  sen 
timents,  teaching  him  that,  true  as  they  are,  they  should 
be  kept  back,  like  steam,  for  working  the  mill,  and  not 
let  off  by  the  safety-valve  of  imaginative  expression. 
In  this  volume  such  beauty  as  there  is,  is  pure  beauty, 
though  it  is  not  of  a  very  powerful  kind.  .  .  .  Long 
fellow  does  not  catch  the  deepest  beauty  of  the  deepest 
passions  which  human  life  presents  to  us.  ...  But  he 
catches  the  surface  bubbles,  —  the  imprisoned  air  which 
rises  from  the  stratum  next  beneath  the  commonplace, 
the  beauty  that  a  mild  and  serene  intellect  can  see 
issuing  everywhere,  both  from  nature  and  from  life,  — 
with  exceedingly  delicate  discrimination  ;  and  his  poetry 
affects  us  with  the  same  sense  of  beauty  as  the  blue 
wood-smoke  curling  up  from  a  cottage  chimney  into  an 
evening  sky."  In  speaking  of  The  Falcon  of  Ser 
Federigo,  the  critic  quotes  with  admiration  the  lines 
describing  — 

"  The  sudden,  scythe-like  sweep  of  wings,  that  dare 
The  headlong  plunge  thro'  eddying  gulfs  of  air." 

When  the  volume  containing  King  Robert  of  Sicily 
appeared,  a  graduate  of  Brown  University  carried 
a  copy  of  it  to  the  Emperor  of  Brazil,  Dom  Pedro 
II.  It'  was  the  year  in  which  the  two  princes,  the 
Count  Gaston  d' Orleans,  and  the  Prince  August 
Saxe-Coburg-Gotha,  grandsons  of  Louis  Philippe,  had 
come  to  Brazil  to  marry  the  two  princesses.  The 
young  men  were  living  in  the  city  of  Rio  de  Janeiro, 
but  went  every  day  into  the  emperor's  palace  of  Boa 


THE   OLD    HOWE   TAVERN    AT   SOUTH    SUDBURY,    MASS. 

NOW    FAMOUS   AS    THE   WAYSIDE    INN. 


94  HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Vista,  where,  after  the  emperor  had  devoured  the 
Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  they  also  read  them  with 
avidity.  They  were  all  especially  charmed  with  King 
Robert  of  Sicily ;  and,  before  the  departure  of  the 
American  gentleman,  the  emperor  gave  him  his  auto 
graph  manuscript  of  a  translation  of  the  poem  into 
Portuguese,  which  he  was  to  deliver  to  Mr.  Longfellow. 
Mr.  Longfellow  told  the  bearer  of  the  manuscript,  when 
he  came  to  Cambridge,  that  several  Portuguese  poets 
had  translated  the  poem,  but  that  the  one  made  by  the 
Emperor  of  Brazil  was  the  best. 

The  interest  of  the  reader  in  these  beautiful  poems 
never  flags,  and  his  only  regret  is  that  the  series  should 
end  at  all.  One  echoes  heartily  the  words  of  George 
W.  Curtis  when  he  says,  "  So  ends  this  ripe  and  mel 
low  work,  leaving  the  reader  like  one  who  listens  still 
for  pleasant  music  i'  the  air  which  sounds  no  more." 

"  *  Farewell ! '  the  portly  Landlord  cried ; 
*  Farewell ! '  the  parting  guests  replied, 
But  little  thought  that  nevermore 
Their  feet  would  pass  that  threshold  o'er ; 
That  nevermore  together  there 
Would  they  assemble,  free  from  care, 
To  hear  the  oaks'  mysterious  roar, 
And  breathe  the  wholesome  country  air."  1 

The  first  series  of  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn  came 
out  during  the  progress  of  the  civil  conflict.  The  wai 

1  From  what  is  known  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  character,  many  of  his 
readers  have  been  led  to  suppose  that  the  picture  of  the  student,  drawn 
in  these  tales,  was  but  a  description  of  himself.  The  wayside  inn  is  an 
old  house  in  Sudbury,  Mass.,  the  story-tellers  are  guests  who  used  to 
gather  there.  The  names  given  to  the  story-tellers  are  as  follows: 
the  Sicilian,  Professor  Luigi  Monti;  the  student,  Henry  Wales;  the 
musician,  Ole  Bull;  the  poet,  Thomas  William  Parsons ;  the  merchant, 
Edulei,  a  Boston  Oriental  dealer;  the  theologian,  Professor  Tread  well; 
the  innkeeper,  Lyman  Howe. 


CHARLES  APPLETON  LONGFELLOW.  95 

made  a  great  impression  upon  Mr.  Longfellow,  from  the 
fact  that  his  oldest  son,  Charles  Appleton,  was  then  a 
lieutenant  in  the  First  Massachusetts  Cavalry,  in  which 
he  served  with  credit  for  two  years.  Lieut.  Longfellow 
was  very  severely  wounded  in  the  Mine  Run  campaign 
in  Virginia,  in  the  autumn  of  1863,  and  Mr.  Longfellow 
went  down  to  meet  him  at  Washington.  It  is  very 
likely  that  his  beautiful  poem,  Killed  at  the  Ford, 
was  inspired  by  this  event.  While  in  the  city  the  poet 
suffered  from  an  attack  of  malaria.  Lieut.  Longfellow 
inherited  the  bravery  and  daring  energy  of  his  great 
grandfather,  Gen.  Wadsworth,  and  the  manliness  and 
generosity  of  his  father.  Gen.  Horace  Binney  Sargent 
used  often  to  speak  of  him  with  admiration.  Lieut. 
Longfellow  at  one  time  generously  gave  all  his  salary 
to  be  divided  between  two  of  his  comrades ;  but  it  was 
only  after  urgent  solicitation  on  the  part  of  Gen.  Sargent1 
that  he  consented  to  have  it  made  known  to  the  soldiers 
that  the  money  came  from  him.  He  has  travelled  ex 
tensively  in  the  East,  and  has  brought  home  from  China 

1  Gen.  Sargent  writes  from  Salem,  under  date  of  April  20, 1882,  that 
the  facts  were  as  follows:  "  Two  lieutenants  of  the  First  Massachusetts 
Cavalry  were  captured,  and  dropped  from  the  rolls  as  lost.  We  thought 
them  dead.  Meanwhile  Professor  Longfellow's  son,  afterwards  Major 
C.  A.  Longfellow,  was  assigned  to  this  regiment,  and  had,  I  think, 
served  six  months  when  the  missing  officers  came  back.  The  United 
States  paymaster  had  no  authority  to  pay  two  extra  lieutenants  dropped 
from  the  roster,  and  properly  enough  paid  Lieut.  Longfellow  his  deserved 
pay,  leaving  the  officers  who  had  been  captured  to  whistle  for  their 
money.  When  Lieut.  Longfellow  heard  their  case,  he  instantly  deter 
mined  to  surrender  the  whole  of  his  merited  salary,  and  asked  me  tn 
give  it  to  one  or  both  of  them,  '  as  from  an  unknown  friend,  without  Icitinf/ 
(him)  be  known  in  the  matter.'  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  I  per 
suaded  him  that  a  knowledge  of  his  generous  and  manly  act  would  con 
duce  to  discipline  and  good  order,  by  letting  the  command  know  how 
worthy  he  was  of  every  soldier's  affectionate  respect.  You  are  right  in 
saying  I  admired  this  young  officer." 


96  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

and  Japan  large  quantities  of  bric-a-brac.  Once  when 
a  lad  he  made  a  trip  to  England,  —  he  and  two  other 
young  friends  making  the  passage  in  a  small  sloop  in 
eighteen  days. 

In  the  year  1864  Hawthorne  died  (May  24)  ;  and 
Longfellow,  who  attended  the  funeral  in  Concord, 
soon  afterwards  wrote  his  beautiful  poem  on  his  dear 
friend. 

FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

In  1866  Flower-de-Luce  appeared.  It  contained 
among  other  pieces  that  marvellous  poem  on  the  Divina 
Commedia,  part  of  which  shall  here  be  quoted  :  — 

I. 

Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 
A  laborer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 
Enter,  and  cross  himself,  and  on  the  floor 
Kneel  to  repeat  his  Paternoster  o'er; 
Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat ; 
The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 
Become  an  undistinguishable  roar. 
So,  as  I  enter  here  from  day  to  day, 
And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 
Kneeling  in  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray, 
The  tumult  of  the  time  disconsolate 
To  inarticulate  murmurs  dies  away, 
While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 

DANTE'S  DIVINE   COMEDY. 

In  1867  Longfellow  finished  his  translation  of  the 
Divina  Commedia  of  Dante.  In  1863  Mr.  George 
William  Curtis  said,  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  (De 
cember,  p.  772),  "  Would  not  a  translation  of  Dante's 


THE  D1VINA    COMMEDIA.  97 

great  poem  be  a  crowning  work  of  Longfellow's  literary 
life  ?  "  This  was  said  in  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Longfellow  had  already  been  engaged  upon  such  a  task 
for  more  than  twenty-one  years.1  The  revival  of  interest 
in  Dantesque  literature  began  in  England  about  1840. 
As  early  as  1831  Mr.  George  Ticknor  used  to  expound 
Dante  to  his  scholars  at  Harvard  College,  and  to  him 
belongs  the  credit  of  introducing  the  study  of  the  Tus 
can  poet  into  America.  Almost  at  the  beginning  of  his 
career  as  professor  at  Harvard,  Longfellow  must  have 
begun  his  translation  of  Dante's  Divine  Comedy. 
One  of  his  earliest  courses  of  lectures  was  on  Dante. 
In  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe,  published  in 
1845,  appeared  his  translation  of  his  own  selections 
from  the  Purgatorio ;  he  also  wrote  the  essay  pre 
fixed  to  these  selections.  He  had  published  a  few 
translations  from  the  Purgatorio  as  early  as  1839. 
In  1867  the  complete  work  appeared  in  three  volumes 
royal  octavo  (Boston:  Ticknor  &  Fields).  It  was  in 
the  same  year  that  Professor  Charles  Eliot  Norton  pub 
lished  his  fine  translation  of  Dante's  Vita  Nuova.  In 
the  same  memorable  year,  also,  Mr.  Thomas  William 
Parsons  published  his  admirable  version  of  the  In 
ferno. 

Mr.  Longfellow's  version  was  hailed  with  delight  at 
home  and  abroad.  Professor  Norton,  in  reviewing 
the  work  (North- American  Review,  July,  1867),  said, 
"  His  translation  is  the  most  faithful  version  of  Dante 
that  has  ever  been  made.  .  .  .  His  work  is  the  work 
of  a  scholar  who  is  also  a  poet.  Desirous  to  give  the 

1  Mr.  George  Ticknor  wrote  to  Prince  John  of  Saxony,  in  1867,  that 
Mr.  Longfellow  had  then  been  engaged  upon  hia  translation  of  Dante 
for  tweuty-flve  years  at  least. 


98  HENRY   WADSWOBTH  LONGFELLOW. 

reader  unacquainted  with  the  Italian  the  means  of 
knowing  precisely  what  Dante  wrote,  he  has  followed 
the  track  of  his  master  step  by  step,  foot  by  foot,  and 
has  tried,  so  far  as  the  genius  of  translation  allowed,  to 
show  also  how  Dante  wrote." 

It  may  be  remarked  here  that  Mr.  Longfellow  did  not 
attempt  to  reproduce  the  rhymes  of  the  original,  but 
he  has  reproduced  its  deep  interior  music  or  rhythm. 
Schopenhauer  remarks  in  his  Die  Welt  als  Wille  und 
Vorstellung,  that  rhythm  is  intuitive,  has  its  origin  in 
the  deeps  of  the  soul,  in  pure  sensibility ;  while  rhyme 
is  "  a  mere  matter  of  sensation  in  the  organ  of  hearing, 
and  belongs  only  to  empirical  sensibility.  Hence  rhythm 
is  a  far  nobler  and  worthier  aid  than  rhyme." 

To  return  to  Professor  Norton's  review.  He  says  that 
the  version  is  characterized  by  naturalness,  simplicity, 
and  directness.  uMr.  Longfellow  has  proved  that  an 
almost  literal  rendering  is  not  incompatible  with  an  ex 
quisite  poetic  charm ;  and,  although  he  may  in  some 
instances  have  followed  the  exact  order  of  the  Italian 
phrase  too  closely  for  the  best  effect,  his  diction  is  in 
the  main  graceful  and  idiomatic."  He  has  given  "  the 
spirit  of  Dante's  poem."  His  translation  uwill  take 
rank  among  the  great  English  poems." 

Undoubtedly  the  version  of  Mr.  Longfellow  is  disap 
pointing  to  many,  especially  to  those  who  have  not  read 
Dante  in  the  original.  And  those  who  have  must  miss 
in  the  translation  the  deep  glow  and  passionate  inten 
sity  of  the  Inferno.  The  sharp  lines  of  the  fresh- 
tainted  gold  are  often  (but  inevitably)  blurred  in  the 
version.  The  alti  guai  that  rise  from  Dante's  pit  of 
woe,  passing  through  the  alembic  of  Mr.  Longfellow's 
gentle  soul,  are  somehow  changed  into  milder  plaints, 


THE  DIVINA   COMMEDIA.  99 

—  as  the  wailings  of  the  damned  in  Poe's  Due  de 
1'Omelette  are  transmuted  into  sweet  music  when 
passed  through  the  medium  of  the  enchanted  panes. 
Thomas  Carlyle  should  have  translated  Dante's  In 
ferno.  It  seems  to  the  writer,  that,  for  the  general 
reader,  the  prose  version  of  the  Inferno  by  John  A. 
Carlyle  (brother  of  Thomas  Carlyle)  still  gives  the  best 
idea  of  the  intensity  of  Dante's  soul. 

Professor  C.  L.  Speranza  of  Yale  College  has  published 
in  The  Literary  World  the  following  remarks  on  the 
translation,  in  which  he  compares  Longfellow's  version 
with  Gary's,  as  Mr.  Norton,  in  the  article  just  quoted, 
compares  it  with  that  of  Rossetti :  — 

"  The  difficulty  of  Longfellow's  undertaking  did  not 
lie,  perhaps,  so  much  in  the  actual  rendering  of  the 
'Commedia,'  as  in  that  industrious  and  conscientious 
preparatory  process  which  rewarded  him  with  the  abso 
lute  mastery  over  the  poem.  This  once  attained,  a  poet 
and  a  man  like  Longfellow  must  needs  have  done  what 
he  has  done  with  not  only  unqualified  success,  but 
even  comparative  ease.  This  is  not  our  opinion  merely, 
but  so  strong  a  conviction  on  our  part,  that,  when  we 
imagine  him  set  about  the  work  of  translating,  we  see 
in  him  not  a  writer  who  is  toiling  over  a  literary  task, 
but  a  messenger  of  Dante,  who  repeats  his  master's  mes 
sage  —  that  poem  which  he  has  made  a  sacred  part  of 
himself  —  with  the  natural  flow  and  faithfulness  of  an 
ardent  disciple.  The  reader  will  not,  however,  be  con 
tent  with  these  generalities ;  and  we  proceed  to  such 
illustrations  as  the  limits  of  our  space  allow,  only  pre 
mising  that  our  standpoint  is  that  of  persons  who,  while 
familiar  with  the  Commedia  in  its  original — that  is,  writ- 
tell  in  their  own  native  tongue  —  have  but  a  recent  and 


100  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

very  imperfect  knowledge  of  English ;  so  that  any  inquiry 
relative  to  the  value  of  the  translation  from  a  literary 
point  of  view  exclusively  English  is  wide  of  our  purpose. 
"  We  will  take  Canto  XIII.  of  the  Inferno,  since  it  is 
quite  popular.  Its  first  part  describes  the  punishment  of 
suicides ;  they  are  changed  into  trees,  on  the  leaves  of 
which  the  harpies  feed,  causing  ceaseless  torment.  We 
quote  here  Longfellow's  version  of  the  description  of 
the  forest  formed  by  these  trees,  as  it  appeared  to  Dante 
when  he  entered  it  with  Virgil :  — 

*  We  had  put  ourselves  within  a  wood, 
That  was  not  marked  by  any  path  whatever. 
Not  foliage  green,  but  of  a  dusky  color ; 
Not  branches  smooth,  but  gnarled  and  intertangled ; 
Not  apple-trees  were  there,  but  thorns  with  poison.' 

"  In  four  lines  not  only  is  the  fantastic  forest  power 
fully  sketched,  but  the  real  one  which  forms  its  antithe 
sis.  Each  line  gives  one  of  the  contrasting  features,  and 
is  complete  in  itself.  By  means  simply  of  this  arrange 
ment  and  fewness  of  appropriate  words,  the  reader, 
while  beholding  the  forest  in  all  its  mysterious  sullen- 
ness,  is  forced  to  stop  and  think.  Then  he  is  reminded 
of  Dante,  sees  the  amazement  which  at  each  step  deters 
him  from  proceeding  and  examining  more  minutely. 
This  continued  pausing  at  the  very  entrance  of  the  awful 
wilderness,  marked  by  no  path  whatever,  enables  us  to 
hear  the  breath  of  the  poet,  the  rapid  pulsations  of  his 
frightened  heart,  and  we  feel  his  horror  stealing  over  us. 
Longfellow  felt  it ;  consequently,  aware  that  any  slight 
est  change  in  the  arrangement  or  words  of  the  original 
would  spoil  the  scene,  by  a  sorcerous  power  of  his  own 
has  transported  it  from  hell  to  America.  There  it 


THE  DIVINA   COMMEDIA.  101 

stands  untouched,  as  arid  and  dismal,  as  infernally 
natural,  as  Dante  saw  it.  Let  us  read  now  Gary's 
version  of  this  same  passage :  — 

'We  enter'd  on  a  forest,  where  no  track 
Of  steps  had  worn  a  way.     Not  verdant  there 
The  foliage,  but  of  dusky  hue ;  not  light 
The  boughs  and  tapering,  but  with  knares  deform'd 
And  matted  thick ;  fruits  there  were  none, 
But  thorns  instead,  with  venom  filTd.' 

"  This  is  not  Dante's  forest,  it  is  Gary's :  the  outline 
is  different,  different  the  movement.  The  very  redun 
dance  of  the  words,  their  polish,  breaks  the  spell.  We 
lose  sight  of  the  wood  to  wonder  at  the  task  of  the 
translator :  we  see  him  busy  deforming  his  trees  with 
knares,  c  matting '  them  ;  thick '  together,  and  filling 
them  up  with  poison.  Alas !  could  he,  at  least,  have 
found  upon  them  some  fruits  to  refresh  his  lips  I  But 
4  fruits  there  were  none.'  " 

As  early  as  sixteen  years  ago,  Mr.  Longfellow,  while 
engaged  on  his  translation  of  Dante,  used  to  gather 
Dante  scholars  together,  and  read  to  them  portions  of 
his  translation,  for  the  sake  of  criticism  and  discussion. 
At  a  meeting  held  at  his  house  on  Feb.  11,  1881,  and  at 
a  later  meeting  at  the  house  of  Professor  Norton,  March 
17,  1881,  a  Dante  Society  was  organized,  —  the  first  in 
America.  The  writer  is  indebted  to  Professor  Norton, 
and  to  Mr.  John  Woodbury,  secretary  of  the  society, 
for  details  of  its  organization  and  work.  Some  young 
gentlemen  of  Harvard  College  proposed  such  a  society 
to  Professor  Norton,  who  said  at  once,  "There  is  one 
man  in  Cambridge  who  should  be  its  president,  and  that 
is  Mr.  Longfellow."  When  the  matter  was  proposed 


102  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

to  him,  he  consented,  on  condition  that  no  duties  should 
be  laid  upon  him.  At  the  third  meeting  of  the  society, 
May  21,  1881,  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Justin  Winsor,  Mr. 
Longfellow  was  present,  and  made  some  remarks  on 
a  translation  of  Dante's  poem  into  the  Catalan  dialect 
of  Spain.  One  object  of  the  Dante  Society  is  to  estab 
lish  at  Harvard  University  a  library  of  Dantesque  lit 
erature,  and  another  object  is  to  translate  such  works 
of  Dante  as  have  not  yet  appeared  in  English.  The 
vice-president  is  James  Russell  Lowell,  and  the  mem 
bership  now  numbers  about  fifty. 

CHRISTUS. 

The  New  England  Tragedies  (1868),  and  The  Divine 
Tragedy  (1872),  were  not  successful  as  poems.  They 
fell  flat  on  the  market,  the  books  remaining  largely 
unsold.  In  1872  they  were  published  with  The  Golden 
Legend  in  one  volume,  under  the  title  Christus,  a 
Mystery,  and  thus  formed  a  consecutive  series.  They 
were  not  included  in  Osgood  &  Co.'s  popular  centennial 
( 1876  )  "  complete  "  edition  of  Longfellow's  poems. 

The  New  England  Tragedies  are  in  two  parts:  I. 
John  Endicott;  and  II.  Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem 
Farms. 

John  Endicott  describes  the  persecution  of  the 
Quakers.  Both  poems  deal  with  scenes  in  early  colo 
nial  times,  and  show  deep  study.  The  following  pas 
sage  has  the  accustomed  ring  of  Mr.  Longfellow's 
poetry :  — 

"  As  the  earth  rolls  round, 
It  seems  to  me  a  huge  Ixion's  wheel, 
Upon  whose  whirling  spokes  we  are  bound  fast, 
And  must  go  with  it  1     Ah,  how  bright  the  sun 


VISIT  TO  EUEOPE.  103 

Strikes  on  the  sea,  and  on  the  masts  of  vessels, 
That  are  uplifted  in  the  morning  air, 
Like  crosses  of  some  peaceable  crusade  1 " 

Mr.  Henry  H.  Clark,  who  for  more  than  thirty  years 
was  either  a  compositor  or  proof-reader  of  Mr.  Long 
fellow's  works,  has  kindly  furnished  the  writer  with  the 
following  reminiscences  and  remarks  concerning  The 
Divine  Tragedy:  — 

41  I  thought  he  had  a  consciousness  that  this  book  had 
not  taken  the  place  it  ought,  as  if  somehow  the  public 
did  not  comprehend  it  or  appreciate  it  according  to  the 
time  and  pains  he  had  taken  in  its  production.  But 
this  is  the  experience  of  authors.  The  work  thrown  off 
in  a  moment  of  impulse  is  often  caught  up  as  the  most 
precious  gem.  But  perhaps  the  prime  cause  of  its  fail 
ure  is  not  so  much  in  the  poet  as  in  the  impossibility  of 
any  one,  however  gifted,  improving  upon  the  simple 
beauty  of  the  Bible  narrative. 

"  One  day  Mr.  Longfellow  came  in  with  a  sort  of 
triumphant  air,  and  handed  me  a  copy  of  The  Divine 
Tragedy,  brought  out  in  London  (as  if  it  were  worth 
reprinting,  anyhow,  on  the  other  side  of  the  water), 
and  said  he  had  received  two  copies  from  the  publish 
ers,  and  he  thought  perhaps  I  would  like  one  of  them. 
Upon  opening  it  I  found  it  inscribed, '  With  the  compli 
ments  of  the  author.' " 

VISIT  TO  EUROPE. 

In  1868-69  Mr.  Longfellow  revisited  Europe,  where 
he  was  received  with  marked  honors,  which  naturally 
reached  their  climax  in  England,  where  it  was  said  by 
The  Westminster  Review  that  not  one  of  his  English 
contemporaries  had  had  a  wider  or  longer  supremacy 


104  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  London  Times  published  a  poetical  welcome  signed 
"C.  K.,"  generally  attributed  to  Charles  Kingsley,  of 
which  the  following  are  the  opening  lines :  — 

Welcome  to  England,  thou  whose  strains  prolong 
The  glorious  bead-roll  of  our  Saxon  song  : 
Ambassador  and  Pilgrim-Bard  in  one, 
Fresh  from  thy  home, —  the  home  of  WASHINGTON. 
On  hearths  as  sacred  as  thine  own,  here  stands 
The  loving  welcome  that  thy  name  commands ; 
Hearths  swept  for  thee  and  garnished  as  a  shrine 
By  trailing  garments  of  thy  Muse  divine. 
Poet  of  Nature  and  of  Nations,  know 
Thy  fair  fame  spans  the  ocean  like  a  bow, 
Born  from  the  rain  that  falls  into  each  life, 
Kindled  by  dreams  with  loveliest  fancies  rife  ; 
A  radiant  arch  that  with  prismatic  dyes 
Links  the  two  worlds,  its  keystone  in  the  skies. 

Among  the  numerous  festive  occasions  that  were 
made  in  his  honor  was  one  at  which  Mr.  Gladstone  was 
present.  Although  it  had  been  decided  that  no  speeches 
should  be  delivered,  Mr.  Gladstone  was  compelled  to 
respond  to  the  inexorable  demands  of  the  company, 
saying,  among  other  graceful  things,  that,  "  after  all,  it 
was  impossible  to  sit  at  the  social  board  with  a  man 
of  Mr.  Longfellow's  world-wide  fame  without  offering 
him  some  tribute  of  their  admiration.  Let  them,  there 
fore,  simply  but  cordially  assure  him  that  they  were 
conscious  of  the  honor  which  they  did  themselves  in 
receiving  this  great  poet  among  them."  The  University 
of  Cambridge  conferred  upon  him  the  degree  of  LL.  DM 
which  he  had  previously  received  at  Harvard  in  1859. 

An  English  reporter  thus  describes  him  as  he  ap 
peared,  arrayed  in  the  scarlet  robes  of  an  academic 
dignitary :  "  The  face  was  one  which,  I  think,  would 


COLLEGIATE  HONORS.  105 

have  caught  the  spectator's  glance,  even  if  his  attention 
had  not  been  called  to  it  by  the  cheers  which  greeted 
Longfellow's  appearance  in  the  robes  of  an  LL.D. 
Long,  white,  silken  hair,  and  a  beard  of  patriarchal 
length  and  whiteness,  enclosed  a  young,  fresh-colored 
countenance,  with  fine-cut  features  and  deep-sunken  eyes 
overshadowed  by  massive  black  eyebrows.  Looking  at 
him,  you  had  the  feeling  that  the  white  head  of  hair 
and  beard  were  a  mask  put  on  to  conceal  a  young  man's 
face ;  and  that  if  the  poet  chose  he  could  throw  off  the 
disguise,  and  appear  as  a  man  in  the  prime  and  bloom  of 
life."  This  was  the  patriarchal  appearance  of  the  poet: 
of  what  he  was  in  his  early  prime  we  have  the  following 
mere  glimpse,  furnished  by  one  who  met  him  on  his 
first  trip  to  Europe.  He  was  just  from  college,  says 
this  gentleman,  and  "full  of  the  ardor  excited  by 
classical  pursuits.  He  had  sunny  locks,  a  fresh  com 
plexion,  and  clear  blue  eyes,  with  all  the  indications  of 
a  joyous  temperament." 

In  1828  Mr.  Longfellow  received  the  degree  of  A.M. 
from  Bowdoin  College,  which  also  conferred  upon  him 
in  1874  the  degree  of  LL.D.  In  1868  Mr.  Longfellow 
was  also  elected  a  member  of  the  Reform  Club.  In 
July,  1869,  he  received  the  degree  of  J.C.D.  at  Ox 
ford  ;  and  he  returned  to  this  country  in  the  "  China '' 
on  the  31st  of  August,  1869.  In  1874  Mr.  Longfellow 
was  nominated  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Edin 
burgh,  and  received  a  large  complimentary  vote.  He 
was  a  member  of  the  Historical  and  Geographical 
Society  of  Brazil,  of  the  Scientific  Academy  of  St. 
Petersburg,  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Spain,  of  the 
Massachusetts  Historical  Society,  and  of  the  Mexican 
Academy  of  Arts  and  Sciences. 


106  HENEY   WAUSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  PANDORA,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

In  1874  the  volume  entitled  "  Aftermath  "  was  pub 
lished.  In  1875  appeared  The  Masque  of  Pandora, 
and  other  Poems.  This  latter  contained  the  beautiful 
poem,  The  Hanging  of  the  Crane,  a  little  domestic 
idyl,  which  was  made  the  subject  of  a  beautiful  series 
of  tableaux  represented  on  the  stage  of  the  Fifth-ave 
nue  Theatre  in  New  York.  It  is  said  that  the  subject 
of  the  poem  was  suggested  by  a  visit  Mr.  Longfellow 
made  at  the  rooms  of  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  and  his 
newly  married  wife.  The  book  formed  one  of  the  most- 
popular  holiday  works  ever  issued. 

It  may  be  mentioned  here,  that  Mr.  Longfellow's 
poetic  dramas  have  seldom  been  put  upon  the  stage. 
Two  years  ago  Miss  Blanche  Roosevelt  proposed  the 
production  of  The  Masque  of  Pandora,  and  Mr.  Long 
fellow  was  much  interested  in  the  matter.  He  recast 
the  poem,  and  added  a  few  verses  for  stage  purposes. 
The  score  for  The  Masque  was  written  by  Mr.  Alfred 
Cellier,  the  composer  of  Prince  Toto ;  and  a  company 
including  Miss  Blanche  Roosevelt,  Mr.  Hugh  Talbot, 
and  others,  was  engaged  for  its  representation.  The 
play  was  creditably  brought  out  in  Boston  (January, 
1880),  but  was  a  complete  failure.  It  was  utterly 
lacking  in  attractive  power.  It  is  said  that  the  poet 
himself  was  considerably  out  of  pocket  by  the  transac 
tion.  Another  attempt  will  be  made  to  bring  out 
The  Masque  on  the  stage  in  New  York. 

Mr.  Longfellow  was  very  fond  of  the  theatre  and  the 
opera.  The  first  night  of  Rossi's  engagement  at  the 
Globe  Theatre,  in  Boston,  he  occupied  a  box  with  his 
friend  Luigi  Monti,  and  applauded  heartily. 


MORITURl  SALUTAMUS.  107 

In  the  volume  entitled  The  Masque  of  Pandora 
was  published 

MORITURI  SALUTAMUS, 

a  poem  read  at  Bowdoin  College  in  1875,  on  the  occa 
sion  of  the  semi-centennial  celebration  of  his  class.  It 
is  a  poem  pitched  in  a  lofty  and  solemn  key,  and  ranks 
with  Bryant's  Thanatopsis,  and  excels  Wordsworth's 
Intimations  of  Immortality.  The  Rev.  Dr.  Charles 
Carroll  Everett  of  Harvard  University  said,  in  his 
funeral  address  upon  Longfellow,  that  the  "  marvellous 
poem,  Morituri  Salutamus,  is  perhaps,  to-day,  the 
grandest  hymn  to  age  that  was  ever  written." 

Mr.  Henry  H.  Clark  says,  in  a  private  note  to  the 
writer,  that  the  poet  took  the  most  elaborate  pains  in 
the  perfecting  of  the  poem.  "  Months  before  he  was  to 
deliver  it  at  Bowdoin,  he  had  it  put  in  type,  his  pen 
cilled  copy  bearing  evidence  of  many  erasures,  and  look 
ing  like  some  old  palimpsest  which  had  been  written 
over  and  over  again.  Then  in  proof  he  revised  it  and 
revised  it,  and  finally  had  it  printed  in  large,  clear  type, 
as  if  for  preservation  or  presentation  to  his  friends. 

"  I  knew  how  fearful  he  was  that  what  he  was  writ 
ing  would  be  noised  abroad,  and  I  never  felt  so  great 
anxiety  for  any  thing  intrusted  to  my  care.  He  charged 
me  to  keep  it  quiet ;  and  it  was  not  known  at  the  time 
that  he  was  preparing  it  for  any  especial  occasion,  and 
no  unusual  curiosity  was  excited  in  regard  to  it  among 
those  through  whose  hands  it  necessarily  had  to  pass  in 
the  process  of  correction.  But  I  have  always  observed 
that  printers  as  a  class  have  a  nice  sense  of  honor  in 
such  matters,  and  no  oath  could  bind  them  to  greater 
secrecy  than  the  simple  request  that  what  they  have  in 


108  HENRY   WADSWORTU  LONGFELLOW. 

hand  should  not  be  mentioned.  With  every  ne^w  proof 
taken  of  this  poem,  Longfellow  would  require  the  old 
one  returned,  that  by  no  possibility  it  should  be  left 
about  where  it  could  be  seen  or  taken  away ;  and  we 
were  as  careful  as  those  employed  in  the  Printing  Bureau 
of  the  United-States  Treasury,  to  return  every  scrap  of 
proof.  In  the  intervals  of  waiting,  I  would  sometimes 
look  to  see  that  the  dust  on  the  type-form  had  not  been 
disturbed ;  for  I  felt  more  than  ever  before  that  it  would 
not  only  be  doing  him  a  great  wrong  to  allow  it  to  get 
out,  but  would  rob  him  of  the  pleasure  he  had  so  long 
contemplated,  of  coming  before  his  old  classmates  fresh 
with  the  richest  treasures  of  his  heart." 

Says  one  (speaking  of  the  reading  of  the  poem  by  Mr. 
Longfellow),  "  Of  those  who  were  present  on  that  mem 
orable  day,  none  will  ever  forget  the  scene  in  the  church, 
when  the  now  venerable  poet,  surrounded  by  his  class 
mates,  saluted  the  familiar  places  of  his  youth ;  beloved 
instructors,  of  whom  all  but  one  had  passed  into  the 
land  of  shadows ;  the  students  who  filled  the  seats  he 
and  his  companions  had  once  occupied ;  and,  finally,  his 
classmates,  — 

*  against  whose  familiar  names  not  yet 
The  fatal  asterisk  of  death  is  set.' 

"  One  of  these  classmates,  Rev.  David  Shepley,  D.D., 
referring  to  the  poet,  says,  4How  did  we  exult  in  his 
pure  character  and  his  splendid  reputation !  with 
what  delight  gaze  upon  his  intelligent  and  benignant 
countenance  I  with  what  moistening  eye  listen  to  his 
words !  And  what  limit  was  there  to  the  blessing  we 
desired  for  him  from  the  Infinite  Author  of  mind ! ' 
And  he  adds,  '  Just  before  leaving  for  our  respective 


PARKEB    CLEAVELAND.  109 

homes,  we  gathered  in  a  retired  college-room  for  the 
last  time ;  talked  together  a  half-hour,  as  of  old ;  agreed 
to  exchange  photographs,  and  prayed  together.  Then, 
going  forth  and  standing  for  a  moment  once  more  under 
the  branches  of  the  old  tree,  in  silence  we  took  each 
other  by  the  hand  and  separated,  knowing  well  that 
Brunswick  would  not  again  witness  a  gathering  of  the 
class  of  1825.' 

"  But  the  poet  had  not  indulged  in  any  vain  regrets. 
Manifestly  he  revealed  somewhat  his  own  purpose 
when,  in  closing  his  poem  on  that  occasion,  he  said,  — 

*  Something  remains  for  us  to  do  or  dare ; 
Even  the  oldest  tree  some  fruit  may  bear. 

For  age  is  opportunity  no  less 

Than  youth  itself,  though  in  another  dress  ; 

And  as  the  evening  twilight  fades  away, 

The  sky  is  filled  with  stars,  invisible  by  day.' " 

In  1876  Mr.  Longfellow  published  a  centennial  poem 
in  The  Atlantic  Monthly.  Some  time  during  the 
year  1877  a  Parker  Cleaveland  memorial  tablet  was 
placed  on  the  walls  of  the  entrance  stairway  in  Massa 
chusetts  Hall,  Bowdoin  College.  It  was  done  at  the 
instance  of  Peleg  W.  Chandler  of  Boston.  One  morn 
ing  there  was  quietly  placed  on  the  opposite  side  an 
other  tablet  bearing  photographic  likenesses  of  Mr. 
Cleaveland  and  the  poet  Longfellow,  between  which 
likenesses  was  placed  the  following  epitaph,  written  by 
Mr.  Longfellow  during  his  visit  to  Brunswick  in  1875 : 

PARKER  CLEAVELAND. 

Among  the  many  lives  that  I  have  known, 
None  I  remember  more  serene  and  sweet, 
More  rounded  in  itself  and  more  complete, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Than  his  who  lies  beneath  this  funeral  stone. 

These  pines  that  murmur  in  low  monotone, 

These  walks  frequented  by  scholastic  feet, 

Were  all  his  world ;  but  in  this  calm  retreat 

For  him  the  teacher's  chair  became  a  throne. 

With  fond  affection  memory  loves  to  dwell 

On  the  old  dark  days  when  his  example  made 

A  pastime  of  the  toil  of  tongue  and  pen. 

And  now  amid  the  groves  he  loved  so  well 

That  nought  could  bear  him  from  their  grateful  shade, 

He  sleeps,  but  wakes  elsewhere,  for  God  has  said,  Amen ! 

K^RAMOS,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

In  1877  Ke*ramos,  and  other  Poems,  was  published. 
It  included  the  beautiful  tribute  to  James  Russell  Low 
ell,  entitled  The  Herons  of  Elmwood,  and  the  poem 
of  The  White  Czar. 

The  poem  to  Lowell  is  pitched  in  a  high  heroic  strain, 
and  breathes  a  most  noble  spirit.  Elmwood  is  a  great 
haunt  for  birds,  a  perfect  medley  of  bird-voices  often 
saluting  the  ear  of  the  passer-by.  Mr.  John  Holmes,  in 
an  article  in  The  Harvard  Register,  gives  a  pleasant 
sketch  of  rural  Elmwood,  with  its  trees  and  birds  and 
whispering  pines,  showing  that  others  besides  Long 
fellow  have  heard  and  enjoyed  — 

"  The  cry  of  the  herons  winging  their  way 
O'er  the  poet's  house  in  the  Elmwood  thickets." 

Those  familiar  with  the  Portland  of  Longfellow's 
boyhood  have  thought  that  the  imagery  of  Kdramos,  or 
the  potter,  must  have  been  suggested  to  the  poet  by  the 
old  Portland  pottery,  with  which  he  was  familiar  in  his 
youth.  The  truth  of  this  surmise  is  now  established 
by  the  following  note  communicated  to  the  writer  by 


112  HENRY   WADSWORTI1  LONGFELLOW. 

Mr.  Henry  H.  Clark,  to  whom  the  reader  is  already  in 
debted  for  pleasant  reminiscences :  — 

"  He  went  over  the  poem  many  times  in  proof,  elabor 
ating  and  perfecting  it,  and  making  the  verse  smoother 
and  sweeter  each  time.  There  was  one  little  halt  in  the 
measure,  I  thought.  The  expression  4  quilted  sunshine 
and  leaf-shade '  jarred  slightly  on  the  ear.  I  told  him 
if  he  would  remove  this  there  would  not  be  one  imper 
fect  line  in  it.  He  said  he  would  consider  it ;  but  in  the 
morning  he  came  down  saying  it  must  stand ;  for  it  ex 
pressed  just  what  he  wished  to  say,  and  any  other 
arrangement  of  words  would  fail  to  do  it.  And  he 
related  how  when  a  boy  he  had  watched  the  old  potter 
at  his  work  under  the  hill,  going  back  and  forth  under 
the  branches  of  a  great  tree ;  and  it  was  the  light  and 
shade  falling  on  him  that  he  wished  to  picture  in  the 
verse.  And  how  beautifully  he  has  done  it  in  the  open 
ing  stanzas  of  the  poem ! 

'  Turn,  turn,  my  wheel !     Turn  round  and  round 
Without  a  pause,  without  a  sound : 

So  spins  the  flying  world  away  ! 
This  clay,  well  mixed  with  marl  and  sand, 
Follows  the  motion  of  my  hand ; 
For  some  must  follow,  and  some  command, 

Though  all  are  made  of  clay  ! 

1  Thus  sang  the  Potter  at  his  task 
Beneath  the  blossoming  hawthorn-tree, 
While  o'er  his  features,  like  a  mask, 
The  quilted  sunshine  and  leaf -shade 
Moved,  as  the  boughs  above  him  swayed, 
And  clothed  him,  till  he  seemed  to  be 
A  figure  woven  in  tapestry.'  " 

The  year  1879  saw  the  completion  of 


POEMS  OF  PLACES.  113 


POEMS  OF  PLACES, 

edited  by  Mr.  Longfellow  with  the  assistance  of  his 
friend  John  Owen.  These  thirty-seven  dainty  volumes 
certainly  form  a  most  enticing  and  valuable  thesaurus 
of  poems.  But  because  the  sale  of  the  books  was  not 
pushed,  or  for  some  other  reason,  they  never  obtained 
much  circulation,  and  the  publishers  lost  many  thou 
sand  dollars  by  the  undertaking.  Mr.  Owen's  work  was 
chiefly  in  verifying  and  ascertaining  the  authorship  of 
the  poems.  In  order  readily  to  distinguish  the  volumes 
devoted  to  the  different  countries,  Mr.  Owen  has  had  his 
set  of  Poems  of  Places  bound  in  a  unique  and  fanciful 
style,  in  cloth  of  many  colors.  The  volumes  devoted 
to  English  poetry  are  bound  in  smoke-tinted  cloth, 
Ireland  rejoices  in  a  green  binding,  Spain  appears  in  a 
wine-color,  Greece  in  olive,  Africa  in  black,  etc. 

The  following  from  the  charming  preface  to  the 
series  will  be  read  with  interest:  — 

"  Madame  de  Stael  has  somewhere  said,  that  '  travel 
ling  is  the  saddest  of  all  pleasures.'  But  we  all  have 
the  longing  of  Rasselas  in  our  hearts.  We  are  ready 
to  leave  the  Happy  Valley  of  home,  and  eager  to  see 
something  of  the  world  beyond  the  streets  and  steeples 
of  our  native  town.  To  the  young,  travelling  is  a 
boundless  delight ;  to  the  old,  a  pleasant  memory  and 
a  tender  regret. 

"  I  have  often  observed  that  among  travellers  there 
exists  a  kind  of  free-masonry.  To  have  visited  the 
same  scenes  is  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  those  who 
have  no  other  point  of  contact.  A  vague  interest  sur 
rounds  the  man  whom  we  have  met  in  a  foreign  land : 
and  even  reserved  and  silent  people  can  become  com- 
8 


114  HENEY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

municative  when  the  conversation  turns  upon  the 
countries  they  have  seen. 

" 1  have  always  found  the  Poets  my  best  travelling 
companions.  They  see  many  things  that  are  invisible 
to  common  eyes.  Like  Orlando  in  the  forest  of  Arden, 
they  '  hang  odes  on  hawthorns  and  elegies  on  thistles.' 
They  invest  the  landscape  with  a  human  feeling,  and 
cast  upon  it 

*  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream.' 

Even  scenes  unlovely  in  themselves  become  clothed  in 
beauty  when  illuminated  by  the  imagination,  as  faces 
in  themselves  not  beautiful  become  so  by  the  expres 
sion  of  thought  and  feeling. 

"  This  collection  of  Poems  of  Places  has  been  made 
partly  for  the  pleasure  of  making  it,  and  partly  for  the 
pleasure  I  hope  to  give  to  those  who  shall  read  its 
pages.  It  is  the  voice  of  the  Poets  expressing  their 
delight  in  the  scenes  of  nature,  and,  like  the  song  of 
birds,  surrounding  the  earth  with  music.  For  myself, 
I  confess  that  these  poems  have  an  indescribable  charm, 
as  showing  how  the  affections  of  men  have  gone  forth 
to  their  favorite  haunts,  and  consecrated  them  forever. 

"  Great  is  the  love  of  English  poets  for  rural  and 
secluded  places.  Greater  still  their  love  of  rivers.  In 
Drayton's  Poly-Olbion  the  roar  of  rivers  is  almost 
deafening;  and  if  more  of  them  do  not  flow  through 
the  pages  of  this  work,  it  is  from  fear  of  changing  it 
into  a  morass,  which,  however  beautiful  with  flowers 
and  flags,  might  be  an  unsafe  footing  for  the  wayfarer." 

To  Mr.  Clark  the  reader  is  again  indebted  for  the 
following  charming  account  of  the  compilation  of  the 
poems :  — 


POEMS   OF  PLACES.  115 

"  These  selections  were  made  at  a  time  when  he  was 
confined  to  his  house  by  illness  that  would  not  permit 
him  to  go  out  or  engage  in  more  serious  labors ;  and  it 
was  his  delight  to  take  down  the  '  treasured  volumes  of 
his  choice,'  and  mark  the  passages  appropriate  for  the 
collection.  This  was  more  truly  a  selection,  and  an 
original  selection  by  himself,  than  any  other  collection 
of  verse  heretofore  published ;  for  the  pieces  are  culled 
largely  from  long  poems,  now  little  read,  and  from  a 
wide  range  of  authors,  and  would  seem  to  include  all 
of  interest  that  has  been  written  about  places  of  note 
by  the  best  poets.  The  volumes  on  England  are  fitting 
companions  to  Hawthorne's  Note-Books;  and  if  brought 
out  together,  accompanied  by  illustrations,  the  two 
would  form  a  delightful  guide-book  to  the  traveller. 

"Longfellow  was  choice  in  his  selections.  He  did 
not  take  every  thing  that  came  to  hand,  and  was  criti 
cised  for  having  omitted  some  familiar  pieces ;  but  he 
would  not  include  any  he  felt  were  unfit  in  language  or 
unworthy  in  merit,  and,  even  after  the  pieces  were  in 
type,  many  at  first  selected  were  cut  out  for  some  pas 
sage  he  could  not  approve,  or  to  make  room  for  some 
better  choice.  And  in  this  he  showed  the  same  purity 
of  taste  and  discriminating  judgment  as  in  his  own 
works.  But  sometimes,  in  consequence  of  these  changes 
when  the  forms  were  made  up,  he  was  compelled  to 
write  a  poem  to  fill  the  place  when  no  other  was  avail 
able  ;  and  scattered  through  the  volumes  are  many  origi 
nal  poems  of  his  that  had  never  appeared  before  and  do 
not  appear  elsewhere.  But,  having  been  written  for  this 
purpose,  and  with  more  haste  than  usual,  he  at  first 
credited  them  to  '•  Anonymous,'  that  prolific  writer,  as  if 
he  did  i:qt  feel  they  were  fully  up  to  his  standard;  but 


116  HEN  BY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

he  was  persuaded  at  last  to  give  them  his  name,  and  they 
stand  as  worthy  of  his  muse  as  any  other  work  of  his  pen. 

"  It  was  singular  to  note,  in  reprinting  from  4  best  edi 
tions,'  how  errors  had  crept  in ;  and  sometimes  I  came 
upon  a  passage  I  thought  incorrect  or  obscure,  or  a  piece 
too  commonplace,  when  he  would  say,  fc  Let  us  read  it ; ' 
and  he  would  at  once  discover  the  defect,  while  I  had 
the  benefit  of  his  fine  reading  (for  it  may  not  be  gen 
erally  known  that  he  was  a  fine  reader,  the  melody 
of  his  voice  giving  a  sweetness  to  his  expression  that 
was  charming,  and  his  eyes  glowing  with  the  rapture  of 
the  thought.  He  would  sometimes  brace  himself  up, 
and  throw  back  his  shoulders,  and  read  with  all  the 
impression  of  the  professional  actor).  It  was  such  a 
treat  to  hear  him  read,  that  I  fear  I  was  tempted  to  find 
difficulties  to  be  decided  by  so  pleasant  an  ordeal. 

"However  coldly  the  public  received  this  work,  I 
enjoyed  it  intensely.  Mr.  Emerson  coming  in  one  day, 
and  finding  him  looking  over  his  proof,  asked  what  he 
was  doing.  When  told  he  was  making  a  compilation, 
the  old  sage  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  and  said,  4  The 
world  is  expecting  better  things  of  you  than  this.  You 
are  wasting  time  that  should  be  bestowed  upon  original 
production.'  But  Longfellow  explained  that  he  was 
not  feeling  well  enough  for  other  work,  and  this  diverted 
and  interested  him.  And  inasmuch  as  Emerson  himself 
had  but  a  short  time  before  made  a  collection  of  verse 
(Parnassus),  they  grew  jolly  over  the  incident,  and 
shook  hands  heartily  as  they  parted,  —  perhaps  never  to 
meet  again,  I  thought ;  for  Emerson  was  very  feeble,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  he  would  be  the  first  to  be  called  to 
realize  the  glories  of  the  better  land. 

"  What   a   picture   for  memory  —  these  two  authors 


THE   CHILDREN'S  AEM-CHAIB.  117 

grasping  hands,  as  it  were,  on  the  verge  of  eternity ! 
so  dissimilar  in  appearance,  so  unlike  in  their  work,  but 
the  foremost  men  of  the  time  in  all  that  ennobles 
and  enriches  literature,  and  elevates  the  heart,  and 
sanctifies  the  home. 

"  What  a  delight  it  was  to  have  all  the  great  poet's 
library  to  go  over !  for  the  books  were  brought  to  the 
office,  and  the  type  set  directly  from  them.  These  were 
the  'grand  old  masters'  whose  'footsteps  echo  through 
the  corridors  of  time  ; '  these  were  the  friends  with 
whom  he  took  counsel,  but  not  from  whom  he  drew  his 
inspiration ;  for  Nature  was  his  master,  and  these  but 
his  servants.  He  drank  of  the  living  fountain,  and  was 
refreshed  himself,  and  gave  refreshment  to  others." 

We  approach  now  the  last  years  of  the  poet's  life, 
every  one  of  which,  from  1879  to  1882,  was  signalized 
by  some  public  ovation  in  his  honor.  How  unspeakably 
precious  now  is  the  thought  that  these  tributes  of  love 
were  made  before  it  should  be  forever  too  late ! 

THE   CHILDREN'S  ARM-CHAIR. 

The  year  1879  was  the  children's  year,  when,  on  the 
occasion  of  his  seventy-second  birthday  (Feb.  27),  they 
presented  Mr.  Longfellow  with  the  now  famous  arm 
chair,  made  from  the  wood  of  the  old  horse-chestnut 
tree,  that  stood  at  the  corner  of  Brattle  and  Story 
Streets,  by  the  "  village  smithy,"  l  celebrated  by  Long 
fellow  in  his  poem  of  The  Village  Blacksmith. 

Says  a  writer  in  The  New  York  Evening  Post : 
"  In  the  half  rural  city  where  Longfellow  spent  his 
maturer  life,  —  that  which  he  himself  described  in 

1  The  house  in  which  the  village  smith  lived  is  still  standing  at 
No.  51  Brattle  Street. 


118  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

Hyperion  as  'this  leafy,  blossoming,  and  beautiful 
Cambridge,'  —  he  held  a  position  of  as  unquestion 
able  honor  and  supremacy  as  that  of  Goethe  at  Wei 
mar  or  Jean  Paul  at  Baireuth.  He  was  the  First 
Citizen,  —  the  man  whose  name  had  weight  beyond  all 
others  not  only  in  social  but  in  civic  affairs.  This  was 
the  more  remarkable  as  he  rarely  attended  public  meet 
ings,  seldom  volunteered  counsel  or  action,  and  was  not 
seen  very  much  in  public.  But  his  weight  was  always 
thrown  on  the  right  side  ;  he  took  an  unfeigned  interest 
in  public  matters,  alwa}^s  faithful  to  the  traditions  of 
his  friend  Sumner;  and  his  purse  was  always  easily 
opened  for  all  good  works.  On  one  occasion  there  was 
something  like  a  collision  of  opinion  between  him  and 
the  city  government,  when  it  was  thought  necessary  for 
the  widening  of  Brattle  Street  to  remove  the  'spread 
ing  chestnut-tree '  that  once  stood  before  the  smithy 
of  the  village  blacksmith,  Dexter  Pratt.  The  poet 
earnestly  expostulated :  the  tree  fell,  nevertheless ;  but, 
by  one  of  those  happy  thoughts  which  sometimes  break 
the  monotony  of  municipal  annals,  it  was  proposed  to 
the  city  fathers  that  the  children  of  the  public  schools 
should  be  invited  to  build  out  of  its  wood,  by  their 
small  subscriptions,  a  great  arm-chair  for  the  poet's 
study.  The  unexpected  gift,  from  such  a  source,  salved 
the  offence,  but  it  brought  with  it  a  sore  penalty  to  Mr. 
Longfellow's  household:  for  the  kindly  bard  gave  orders 
that  no  child  who  wished  to  see  the  chair  should  be  ex 
cluded  ;  and  the  tramp  of  dirty  little  feet  through  the 
hall  was  for  many  months  the  despair  of  housemaids." 
The  chair  was  set  in  a  place  of  honor  by  the  study 
fireside.  Its  design  is  very  pretty,  and  in  perfect  taste. 
The  color  is  a  dead  black,  an  effect  produced  by  eboniz- 


THE   CHESTNUT   ARM-CHAIR. 

THE   GIFT   OF   THE   CHILDREN    OF   CAMBRIDGE. 


120     HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

ing  the  wood.  The  upholstering  of  the  arms  and  the 
cushion  is  in  green  leather,  and  the  casters  are  glass 
balls  set  in  sockets.  In  the  back  of  the  chair  is  a  cir 
cular  piece  of  exquisite  carving,  representing  horse- 
chestnut  leaves  and  blossoms.  Horse-chestnut  leaves 
and  burrs  are  presented  in  varied  combinations  at  other 
points.  Around  the  seat,  in  raised  German  text,  are 
the  following  lines  from  the  poem :  — 

"  And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door : 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor." 

Underneath  the  cushion  is  a  brass  plate  on  which  is 
the  following  inscription :  — 

To 
THE  AUTHOR 

of 
THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH, 

This  chair,  made  from  the  wood  of  the  spreading 

Chestnut  Tree, 

is  presented  as 
an  expression  of  grateful  regard  and  veneration 

by 

The  Children  of  Cambridge, 

who  with  their  friends  join  in  the  best  wishes  and 
congratulations 

on 

This  Anniversary, 
Februa  ry  27,  1879. 

Mr.  Longfellow  conveyed  his  thanks  to  the  children 
in  a  beautiful   little   poem,  entitled  "From  my  Arm 


SPEECH  AT  SANDEUS    THEATRE.  121 

Chair,"  first  published,  very  appropriately,  in  The  Cam 
bridge  Tribune :  — 

"  Am  I  a  king,  that  I  should  call  my  own 

This  splendid  ebon  throne? 
Or  by  what  reason,  or  what  right  divine, 
Can  I  proclaim  it  mine  ? 

"  And  thus,  dear  children,  have  ye  made  for  me 

This  day  a  jubilee, 

And  to  my  more  than  threescore  years  and  ten 
Brought  back  my  youth  again." 

SPEECH  AT  SANDERS  THEATRE. 

On  Dec.  28,  1880,  at  the  celebration  of  the  two 
hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  founding  of 
Cambridge,  Mr.  Longfellow  appeared  with  his  friend 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  on  the  platform  at  Sanders 
Theatre.  It  was  his  last  public  appearance.  He  and 
his  brother-poet  Holmes  stood  up  to  receive  the  storm 
of  applause  that  greeted  them  from  the  audience, 
among  which  were  a  thousand  grammar-school  chil 
dren.  The  pleasantest  feature  of  the  occasion  was  this 
ovation  of  the  children  to  their  poet.  Contrary  to  all 
expectation,  and  against  his  own  uniform  custom,  he 
made  a  speech  to  the  children  by  way  of  response  :  — 

"  My  dear  young  friends,  I  do  not  rise  to  make  an 
address  to  you,  but  to  excuse  myself  from  making  one. 
I  know  the  proverb  says  that  he  who  excuses  himself 
accuses  himself ;  and  I  am  willing  on  this  occasion  to 
accuse  myself,  for  I  feel  very  much  as  I  suppose  some 
of  you  do  when  you  are  suddenly  called  upon  in  your 
class-room,  and  are  obliged  to  say  that  you  are  not  pre 
pared.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  faces  and  to  hear  your 
voices.  I  am  glad  to  have  this  opportunity  of  thank- 


122    HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

ing  you  in  prose,  as  I  have  already  done  in  verse,  for 
the  beautiful  present  you  made  me  some  two  years  ago. 
Perhaps  some  of  you  have  forgotten  it,  but  I  have  not ; 
and  I  am  afraid, — yes,  I  am  afraid  that  fifty  years  hence, 
when  you  celebrate  the  three  hundredth  anniversary  of 
this  occasion,  this  day  and  all  that  belongs  to  it  will 
have  passed  from  your  memory :  for  an  English  philos 
opher  has  said  that  the  ideas  as  well  as  children  of  our 
youth  often  die  before  us,  and  our  minds  represent  to 
us  those  tombs  to  which  we  are  approaching,  where, 
though  the  brass  and  marble  remain,  yet  the  inscriptions 
are  effaced  by  time,  and  the  imagery  moulders  away." 

At  the  close  of  the  exercises  the  children  pressed 
around  their  dear  friend  in  crowds,  —  little  boys  and 
girls  with  albums,  begging  for  his  signature.  His 
patience  and  good  nature  were  inexhaustible ;  and, 
when  the  dinner  hour  came,  he  told  all  who  had  not 
got  the  signature  to  come  to  his  house,  every  one,  and 
he  would  give  them  the  autograph  there.  When  a 
gentleman  present  made  some  pleasant  remark  to  him 
about  his  speech,  he  said,  "  My  best  speech  to  the  Cam 
bridge  children  is  my  poem  on  the  arm-chair." 

LOVE  OF  CHILDREN. 

This  seems  a  fit  place  to  give  a  few  anecdotes  of  his 
rare  love  of  children.  Probably  no  other  poet  ever  had 
so  many  lovers  and  friends  among  "  the  little  people  of 
God."  One  day,  during  his  last  sickness,  some  little 
children  were  passing  his  gate ;  and,  when  told  that 
their  dear  friend  was  soon  to  die,  they  began  to  speak 
in  whispers,  and  one  little  boy  said  to  his  companion, 
"  Let's  walk  softly  by,  and  not  make  a  noise."  A 
company  of  little  five-year-old  soldiers,  marching  by 


LOVE  OF  CHILDREN.  123 

the  house  the  day  after  the  passing  away  of  the  poet, 
lowered  their  flag  out  of  respect.  On  the  occasion  of 
Mr.  Longfellow's  last  birthday  (Feb.  27,  1882)  the 
children  of  the  schools  all  through  the  country,  to  a 
large  extent,  gave  up  the  day,  or  a  part  of  it,  to  the 
honoring  of  their  poet,  —  the  exercises  consisting  of 
studies  and  readings  of  his  poems,  and  essays  and 
addresses  upon  his  character  and  genius. 

"  His  native  city  of  Portland  desired  to  honor  him 
with  a  public  reception  upon  the  same  occasion,  but 
failing  health  and  his  aversion  to  public  displays  com 
pelled  him  to  decline  the  honor.  The  members  of  the 
Maine  Historical  Society,  however,  kept  the  day  with 
eulogies,  critical  and  personal  essays,  and  a  poem.  At 
the  Blind  Asylum  in  South  Boston  there  was  a  pleas 
ing  celebration,  in  which  the  pupils  participated,  and  in 
preparation  for  which  a  volume  in  raised  letters  had 
been  printed,  containing  tributes  to  Mr.  Longfellow 
and  some  passages  from  his  poems." 

Among  his  many  poems  expressing  his  love  and 
tenderness  for  children,  Weariness  is  one  of  the  best :  — 

O  little  feet !  that  such  long  years 

Must  wander  on  through  hopes  and  fears, 

Must  ache  and  bleed  beneath  your  load ; 
I,  nearer  to  the  wayside  inn 
Where  toil  shall  cease  and  rest  begin, 

Am  weary,  thinking  of  your  road ! 

The  following  story  has  been  widely  copied  by  the 
newspapers.  For  many  years  Mr.  Luigi  Monti  was 
in  the  habit  of  dining  at  Longfellow's  house  on  Sat 
urdays,  and  then  playing  on  the  piano  for  the  enter 
tainment  of  Mr.  Longfellow,  who  was  very  fond  of 
music.  On  Christinas  Day,  while  walking  briskly 


124  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

toward  the  old  historic  house,  he  was  accosted  by  two 
ladies  and  a  girl  about  twelve  years  old,  who  inquired 
the  way  to  Longfellow's  home.  He  told  them  it  was  some 
distance  down  the  street,  but  if  they  would  walk  along 
with  him  he  would  show  them.  When  they  reached  the 
gate,  the  girl  said,  "  Do  you  think  we  can  go  into  the 
yard? "  —  "Oh,  yes !  "  said  Signor  Monti.  "There  are  no 
dogs  barking  at  anybody."  As  they  entered  the  lawn 
the  little  girl  exclaimed  :  "  Oh,  I  should  like  to  see  Mr. 
Longfellow  so  much !  "  To  which  Mr.  Monti  replied : 
"  Do  you  see  the  room  on  the  left  ?  That's  where  Martha 
Washington  held  her  receptions  a  hundred  years  ago. 
If  you  look  at  the  windows  on  the  right,  you  will  prob 
ably  see  a  white-haired  gentleman  reading  a  paper. 
Well,  that  will  be  Mr.  Longfellow."  She  looked  grati 
fied  and  happy  at  the  unexpected  pleasure  of  really  see 
ing  the  man  whose  poems  she  said  she  loved.  As  Signor 
Monti  drew  near  the  house,  he  saw  Mr.  Longfellow 
standing  with  his  back  against  the  window,  his  head  of 
course  out  of  sight.  When  he  went  in,  the  kind- 
hearted  Italian  said,  "Do  look  out  of  the  window,  and 
bow  to  that  little  girl,  who  wants  to  see  you  very  much." 
—  "A  little  girl  wants  to  see  me  very  much,  —  where  is 
she  ?  "  He  hastened  to  the  door,  and,  beckoning  with 
his  hand,  called  out,  "  Come  here,  little  girl,  come  here, 
if  you  want  to  see  me."  She  needed  no  second  invita 
tion  ;  and,  after  shaking  her  hand  and  asking  her  name, 
he  kindly  took  her  into  the  house,  showed  her  the  "  old 
clock  on  the  stairs,"  the  chair  made  from  the  village 
smithy's  chestnut-tree,  and  the  curious  pictures  and 
souvenirs  gathered  in  many  years  of  foreign  residence. 
Not  many  months  before  the  poet's  death,  he  called 
on  Rev.  Minot  J.  Savage  of  Boston.  Mr.  Savage's  little 


ULTIMA    THULE.  125 

boy  and  he  struck  up  quite  an  acquaintanceship ;  and 
when  Mr.  Longfellow  was  leaving,  and  had  got  quite 
to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  the  little  fellow  called  out, 
"Mr.  Longfellow,  'oo  must  come  back,  and  tiss  me 
once  more ! "  And  back  he  went  to  the  top  of  the 
stairs  to  kiss  the  little  fellow. 

A  gentleman  relates,  that  once,  when  he  was  a  small 
boy,  he  was  present  with  a  large  company  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen  whom  Longfellow  had,  with  accustomed 
kindness,  consented  to  show  over  the  old  historical 
mansion.  All  the  rest  had  been  introduced  save  him 
self  (the  small  boy),  and  the  company  evidently  con 
sidered  hun  too  insignificant  to  deserve  notice.  The 
host  noticed  the  omission,  "  and,  grasping  his  hand, 
gave  him  a  more  cordial  greeting  even  than  he  had 
given  to  the  rest  of  the  company." 

Mr.  J.  Q.  A.  Johnson  of  Cambridge  is  the  authority 
for  the  statement  that  a  gentleman  of  that  city  pre 
serves  a  pleasant  memento  of  the  poet  in  the  shape  of  a 
little  boat,  whittled  out  of  a  shingle,  with  places  for 
three  masts.  It  was  made  several  years  ago  by  Mr. 
Longfellow,  for  a  little  girl.  The  noticeable  feature  of 
it,  says  Mr.  Johnson,  is  that  — 

"  With  nicest  skill  and  art, 
Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 
A  little  model  the  master  wrought." 

ULTIMA   THULE. 

It  was  during  1880  that  Ultima  Thule,  the  last  pub 
lished  volume  of  the  poet,  appeared.  The  title  was, 
alas !  prophetic  and  true.  He  was  nearing  the  end  of 
those  songs  that  he  had  so  long  and  so  sweetly  sung  to 
cheer  his  own  pathway,  and  that  of  others,  through 
the  world  of  sense. 


126  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

Ultima  Thule  contained  the  graceful  poem  on  the 
pen  presented  by  "  beautiful  Helen  of  Maine."  l  The 
following  lines  are  from  the  poem  which  gives  its  title 
to  the  book :  — 

"  With  favoring  winds,  o'er  sunlit  seas, 
We  sailed  for  the  Hesperides, 
The  land  where  golden  apples  grow ; 
But  that  —  ah !  that  was  long  ago. 

"  Ultima  Thule !    Utmost  isle ! 
Here  in  thy  harbors  for  a  while 
We  lower  our  sails ;  a  while  we  rest 
From  the  unending,  endless  quest." 

In  1881  The  Literary  World  published  a  Longfellow 
Number,  a  beautiful  tribute  to  the  poet.  Extracts  from 
its  careful  papers  have  been  embodied  in  this  book.  In 
this  year  was  published  The  Longfellow  Birthday  Book, 
edited  by  Miss  Charlotte  Fiske  Bates.  Of  this  book 
nineteen  thousand  copies  were  sold  during  the  first  year 
after  its  publication.  It  is  a  handsome  little  volume, 
with  quotations  from  Longfellow's  writings  sprinkled 
through  a  calendar  containing  blank  spaces  for  auto 
graphs  and  dates  of  birth.  On  Feb.  27, 1882,  the  school 
children  of  the  country,  as  has  been  said,  devoted  the 
day  to  honoring  the  name  of  Longfellow. 

LAST    SICKNESS. 

The  last  two  summers  of  his  life  were  spent  at  Nahant, 
his  daughter  and  her  children  being  there.  He  found 
the  sea  air  very  cold,  however ;  and  it  was  his  custom  to 

1  The  pen  was  made  from  a  fetter  of  Bonnivard,  the  prisoner  of 
Chillon;  the  handle,  of  wood  from  the  frigate  "Constitution,"  bound 
with  a  circlet  of  gold,  inset  with  three  precious  stones,  from  Siberia, 
Ceylon,  aud  Maine. 


LAST  SICKNESS.  127 

wear  a  heavy  overcoat  to  protect  him  from  the  chill 
breezes.  At  Nahant  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote  very  little. 
He  took  only  a  few  volumes  with  him,  but  received 
impressions  which  he  later  expressed  in  verse. 

His  health  remained  tolerably  good  until  within  about 
three  months  of  his  death,  although  his  digestive  powers 
were  considerably  impaired,  and  he  was  obliged  to  live 
at  times  almost  exclusively  on  bread  and  milk.  His 
health  had  received  a  shock  on  the  occasion  of  the 
death  of  his  friend  Louis  Agassiz,  and  he  perhaps  never 
fully  recovered  from  that  blow.  During  the  last  three 
months  he  scarcely  walked  outside  of  his  private 
grounds.  He  now  wrote  very  few  letters,  using  a  printed 
form  for  the  acknowledgment  of  such  communications 
as  he  received  from  others.  On  Saturday  morning,  the 
18th  of  March,  he  walked  for  a  while  on  the  piazza,  and 
on  going  into  the  house  complained  of  being  chilled.  At 
dinner  he  expressed  a  fear  that  he  should  have  a  return 
of  vertigo.  On  retiring  to  his  chamber,  he  was  taken 
violently  ill  with  vomiting  and  diarrhoea.  Dr.  Merrill 
Wyman  was  summoned,  and  later  Dr.  Francis  Minot. 
Sunday  morning  he  was  so  dizzy  as  to  be  unable  to  rise. 
His  sufferings  were  severe,  and  opiates  were  adminis 
tered.  On  Monday  the  symptoms  were  alarming  and 
dangerous  in  character,  and  peritonitis  had  plainly  de 
veloped.  On  Tuesday  the  lungs  became  affected,  and 
bronchitis  set  in,  the  patient  suffering  extremely  from 
coughing  fits.  Wednesday  and  Thursday  he  suffered 
less  pain ;  and,  recovering  during  the  latter  day  from  a 
sleepiness  that  was  upon  him  the  day  before,  he  became 
as  bright  and  genial  in  conversation  as  was  his  wont. 
An  increase  of  inflammation,  Thursday  night,  induced 
partial  unconsciousness,  which  recurred  at  intervals. 


128  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

His  talk  was  often  incoherent  and  rambling.  As  the 
morning  of  Friday  wore  on,  there  was  a  return  of  com 
plete  consciousness,  and  the  sick  man  knew  his  end 
was  near.  Pain  was  now  nearly  absent,  but  there  was 
a  disposition  to  dulness.  He  talked  very  little,  and 
for  an  hour  before  death  became  unconscious.  He  died 
easily  and  peacefully,  at  ten  minutes  after  three  o'clock 
on  Friday  afternoon,  March  24,  1882,  surrounded  by 
the  complete  circle  of  his  family.  By  the  bedside  were 
the  three  daughters,  Edith  (wife  of  Richard  Henry 
Dana),  Alice  M.,  and  Annie  Allegra  (unmarried)  ;  the 
two  sons,  Ernest  and  Charles  Appleton ;  his  brother, 
Alexander  W.  Longfellow  of  Portland;  his  sisters,  Mrs. 
James  Greenleaf  of  Cambridge  and  Mrs.  Annie  L. 
Pierce  of  Portland ;  his  brothers-in-law  Thomas  Gold 
Appleton  and  Nathan  Appleton  of  Boston ;  Mrs.  Er 
nest  Longfellow ;  and  Wadsworth  and  William  P.  P. 
Longfellow,  nephews,  of  Portland.  The  poet's  brother, 
Rev.  Samuel  Longfellow  of  Germantown,  Penn.,  arrived 
too  late  at  Craigie  House :  its  owner  had  passed  into 
the  silent  land. 

The  people  of  Cambridge  were  most  of  them  well 
informed  of  the  dangerous  character  of  his  sickness,  so 
that,  when  the  solemn  bells  slowly  tolled  seventy-five 
strokes,  they  knew  what  had  occurred ;  and  deep  and 
genuine  was  the  sorrow,  as  if  each  had  suffered  a  severe 
personal  bereavement.  It  was  touching  to  witness  the 
grief  of  the  servants  of  the  house.  Soon  after  the  death 
became  known,  tokens  of  mourning  were  exhibited  on 
many  houses,  and  the  poet's  portrait  draped  in  black 
was  seen  in  many  shop-windows. 

Among  those  who  sent  letters  of  inquiry,  or  called 
personally,  during  the  sickness,  were  Dr.  Oliver  Wen- 


THE  FUNERAL.  129 

dell  Holmes,  President  Charles  William  Eliot  and  many 
Harvard  professors,  William  D.  Howells,  John  G. 
Whittier,  Mayor  Samuel  A.  Green  of  Boston,  Hon. 
Robert  C.  Winthrop,  Walt  Whitman,  James  Russell 
Lowell,  and  George  W.  Childs. 

THE  FUNERAL. 

The  funeral  was  held  on  Sunday,  March  26,  and  was 
both  private  and  public.  To  the  service  at  the  house 
none  were  admitted  but  the  members  of  the  family  and 
a  very  few  of  the  poet's  most  intimate  friends  who  had 
cards  of  invitation.  The  services  at  the  house  began 
at  three  o'clock.  At  that  time  the  sky  was  heavily 
overcast ;  and  soon  the  snowflakes  began  to  fall,  recall 
ing  Longfellow's  beautiful  poem  :  — 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  Air, 

Out  of  the  cloud-folds  of  her  garments  shakei^ 
Over  the  woodlands  brown  and  bare, 
Over  the  harvest-fields  forsaken, 
Silent,  and  soft,  and  slow 
Descends  the  snow. 

Even  as  our  cloudy  fancies  take 

Suddenly  shape  in  some  divine  expression, 
Even  as  the  troubled  heart  doth  make 
In  the  white  countenance  confession, 
The  troubled  sky  reveals 
The  grief  it  feels. 

Throughout  the  city,  flags  were  displayed  at  half-mast. 
Before  the  gate  of  the  Longfellow  mansion  were  a  few 
hundred  people  braving  the  snow  and  the  cold.  A 
reverential  stillness  characterized  the  company ;  and, 
when  the  remains  were  brought  out  to  the  hearse, 
9 


130  HENEY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

nearly  all  stood  with  uncovered  heads.  Many  eyes  were 
moistened  with  tears. 

Among  those  present  in  the  house,  besides  the  rela 
tives  above  mentioned,  were  Alexander  Agassiz  and 
Mrs.  Louis  Agassiz ;  Peter  Thacher ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank 
I.  Eustis ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  I.  M.  Spellmari ;  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  and  his  daughter  Ellen  Emerson ;  Oliver  Wen 
dell  Holmes;  George  William  Curtis;  Professor  Charles 
Eliot  Norton ;  Miss  Grace  Norton ;  Rev.  Cyrus  A.  Bar- 
tol,  D.D. ;  Dr.  Merrill  Wyman  ;  Miss  Charlotte  Fiske 
Bates  ;  Samuel  Ward  of  New  York  ;  Luigi  Monti ;  Mrs. 
James  Thomas  Fields ;  Mrs.  Ole  Bull ;  Mrs.  Beane 
(Helen  Marr)  ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eben  N.  Horsford  and 
daughters ;  John  Owen ;  the  Misses  Palfrey ;  Mr.  Wil 
liam  Dean  Ho  wells ;  Mr.  James  Myers ;  Professor  Louis 
Dyer ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Brooks ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Joseph 
Warner;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Benjamin  Vaughan. 

The  remains  were  laid  in  a  plain  casket  covered 
with  broadcloth  embossed  with  black  ornaments.  On 
the  top  were  placed  two  long  palm-leaves  crossed ;  and 
the  casket  was  encircled  with  a  rim  of  the  passion 
flower  vine,  bearing  one  beautiful  blossom.  The  silver 
plate  bore  the  inscription  :  — 


,J*4>t>&>w.. 

f 

Born  February  27,   1807. 

Died  March  24,   1882. 


The  brother,  the  Rev.  Samuel  Longfellow,  conducted 
the  services,  making  a  short  prayer,  and  reading  selec 
tions  from  Mr.  Longfellow's  poems,  one  of  which  was 
the  exquisite  poem  entitled  Suspiria:  — 


THE  FUNERAL.  131 

Take  them,  O  Death  !  and  bear  away 

Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  own  ! 
Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay, 

Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone ! 

Take  them,  O  Grave  !  and  let  them  lie 

Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 
As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by, 

And  precious  only  to  ourselves  ! 

Take  them,  O  great  Eternity  ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a  gust 
That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree, 

And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust ! 


During  the  services  the  aged  poet  Ralph  Waldo  E?ner- 
son  was  observed  to  come  forward  several  times  to  the 
coffin  to  take  one  more  long  look  at  the  face  of  his  dead 
brother-singer  and  friend. 

The  remains  were  deposited  in  the  family  vault  in 
Mount  Auburn  Cemetery,  the  only  ceremony  there 
being  the  repeating  of  the  following  words  by  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Longfellow :  "  O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  ? 
O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ?  Dust  thou  art,  and 
unto  dust  shalt  thou  return.  The  Lord  gave,  and 
the  Lord  taketh  away.  Blessed  be  the  name  of  the 
Lord." 

The  company  were  then  driven  to  Appleton  Chapel, 
Harvard  College,  where  impressive  public  services  were 
held.  On  a  table  in  front  of  the  altar  was  a  beautiful 
floral  harp,  nearly  three  feet  in  height,  made  of  smilax 
and  white  and  yellow  flowers,  with  one  broken  string. 
The  harp  was  the  gift  of  the  Bohemian  Club  of  San 
Francisco,  and  had  been  ordered  by  telegraph.  The 
exercises  were  conducted  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Charles  Carroll 


132  HENRY    WADSWORT1I  LONGFELLOW. 

Everett,  who,  it  is  interesting  to  remember,  was  in  his 
youth  an  instructor  at  Bowdoin  College.  He  was  as 
sisted  by  the  Rev.  Francis  Greenwood  Peabody,  who 
was  formerly  the  pastor  of  the  First  Parish  Church. 
Among  selections  read  at  this  service  was  one  from 
Hiawatha,  beginning,  — 

"  He  is  dead,  the  sweet  musician  ! 
He  the  sweetest  of  all  singers ! 
He  has  gone  from  us  forever, 
He  has  moved  a  little  nearer 
To  the  Master  of  all  music, 
To  the  Master  of  all  singing !  " 

From  the  remarks  of  Professor  Everett  the  following 
oeautiful  passages  are  extracted :  — 

"  I  said  he  poured  his  life  into  his  work.  It  is  singu 
lar  that  the  phase  of  life  and  of  experience  which  forms 
so  large  a  portion  of  most  poetry,  which  many  sing  if 
they  sing  nothing  else,  he  was  content  to  utter  in  prose, 
if  prose  we  must  call  the  language  of  his  romances.  He 
seems  content  to  have  scattered  unbound  the  flowers  of 
romantic  love  at  the  door  of  the  temple  of  his  song. 
There  is  something  strange,  too,  in  the  fascination 
which  the  thought  of  death  has  for  so  many  generous 
youth.  You  remember  that  Bryant  first  won  his  fame 
by  a  hymn  to  death ;  and  so,  I  think,  the  first  poem  of 
Longfellow's  which  won  recognition  for  him  was  that 
translation  of  those  sounding  Spanish  lines  which  exalt 
the  majesty  of  death,  and  sing  the  shortness  of  human 
life.  But  the  first  song  that  rang  with  his  own  natural 
voice,  which  won  the  recognition  of  the  world,  was  not 
a  song  of  death,  it  was  a  Psalm  of  Life.  That  little 
volume  of  the  Voices  of  the  Night  formed  an  epoch 
in  our  literary  history.  It  breathed  his  whole  spirit. 


WORDS   OF  PROFESSOR   EVERETT.  133 

his   energy,  his    courage,  his    tenderness,  his   faith:  it 
formed  the  prelude  of  all  that  should  come  after. 

"  That  marvellous  poem  Morituri  Salutamus  is  per 
haps  to-day  the  grandest  hymn  to  age  that  was  ever 
written.  It  is  no  distant  dream,  as  it  was  when  those 
sounding  Spanish  lines  flowed  from  his  pen.  He  feels 
its  shadows,  he  feels  that  the  night  is  drawing  nigh,  and 
yet  he  stands  strong  and  calm  and  bold  as  at  first.  He 
greets  the  present  as  he  greeted  in  old  times  the  future. 
He  gathers  from  the  coming  on  of  age,  the  approaching 
night,  no  signal  for  rest,  but  a  new  summons  to  activity. 
He  cries, — 

'  It  is  too  late  !     Ah,  nothing  is  too  late 
Till  the  tired  heart  shall  cease  to  palpitate.' 

"  He  had  breathed  himself  into  his  songs :  in  them, 
he  is  with  us  still.  Wherever  they  go,  as  they  wander 
over  the  world,  he  will  be  with  them,  a  minister  of  love. 
He  will  be  by  the  side  of  the  youth,  pointing  to  heights 
as  yet  unsealed,  and  bidding  him  have  faith  and  cour 
age.  He  will  be  with  the  wanderer  in  foreign  lands, 
making  the  beauty  he  sees  more  fair.  He  will  be  with 
the  mariner  upon  the  sea,  he  will  be  with  the  explorer 
in  the  woods,  he  will  be  in  the  quiet  beauty  of  home ; 
he  will  be  by  the  side  of  the  sorrowing  heart,  pointing 
to  a  higher  faith  ;  and,  as  old  age  is  gathering  about  the 
human  soul,  he  will  be  there  to  whisper  courage,  still  to 

cry,  — 

'  For  age  is  opportunity  no  less 

Than  youth  itself.' 

"  Thus  will  he  inspire  in  all  faith  and  courage,  and 
point  us  all  to  those  two  sources  of  strength  that  alone 
can  never  fail,  c  heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead/  '' 


134  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


TRIBUTES. 

When  the  death  of  Longfellow  was  made  known  in 
England,  there  was  not  a  single  paper  of  repute  in 
Great  Britain  that  did  not  contain  a  long  editorial  on 
the  poet's  life  and  writings,  with  reminiscences  of  his 
visits  to  England.  The  Daily  Telegraph  said,  "  It  is  for 
a  singer  and  for  a  friend  for  whom  America  and  England 
are  mourning  alike."  The  general  sentiment  of  the 
whole  nation  was  that  a  dear  friend  had  gone. 

Among  the  many  American  tributes  to  Longfellow's 
memory  and  name,  the  following  by  George  William 
Curtis  bears  the  stamp  of  great  tenderness  and  beauty :  — 

"No  American  could  have  died  who  would  have 
been  more  universally  mourned  than  Longfellow.  He 
had  come  into  all  homes,  and  was  beloved  of  all  hearts. 
His  sweet  and  pure  arid  tender  genius  has  hallowed  all 
domestic  relations  and  events,  and  there  is  no  emotion 
which  does  not  readily  and  fitly  express  itself  in  his 
verse.  He  was  the  most  famous  of  Americans,  and  his 
fame  had  become  a  personal  affection  and  a  national 
pride.  This  was  from  no  misconception  of  his  position 
in  literature,  or  of  his  peculiar  power  ;  but  it  is  the 
most  significant  tribute  to  the  man. 

"  A  more  symmetrical  and  satisfactory  character  it  is 
not  easy  to  conceive.  Rectitude  and  simplicity,  exqui 
site  courtesy  and  gentleness,  infinite  patience  and  sym 
pathy  and  tact,  blended  in  a  manner  which  was  as 
gracious  as  a  poem,  and  benignant  as  a  benediction. 
His  accomplishment  in  letters,  his  elegant  scholarship, 
were  extraordinary.  The  felicity  of  citation,  the  aptness 
of  allusion,  were  delightful ;  and  witli  all  his  wealth  of 
resource  he  never  tipped  a  sneer,  or  permitted  an  innu- 


TRIBUTE  OF  G.    W.    CUBTIS.  135 

endo.  His  perfect  humanity  instinctively  apprehended 
every  fellow-man ;  and,  known  to  everybody,  not  one 
who  knew  him  personally  can  have  had  any  unkiridness 
of  feeling  for  one  who  could  not  be  unkind.  His  home, 
if  deeply  saddened  in  recent  years,  was  always  the 
House  Beautiful;  and  its  noble,  urbane,  and  beloved 
master  welcomed  guests  from  every  land,  and,  greeting 
them  in  their  own  language,  revealed  to  them  an 
America  which  they  had  not  suspected,  and  which 
they  could  never  forget. 

"  Although  for  many  months  his  friends  have  watched 
him  wistfully,  and  waited  for  news  with  half-foreboding 
hearts,  the  old,  old  sorrow  comes  at  last  with  the  old 
pang  and  unappeasable  sense  of  loss.  He  was  old,  but 
still  his  sweet  song  was  heard  with  all  the  familiar  music 
and  the  inexpressible  charm.  Age  touched  his  silvering 
head,  but  not  his  heart  nor  his  mind.  His  place  among 
us,  in  our  busy  life,  was  that  of  the  bard  in  the  fond 
old  golden  legends  that  he  loved,  the  honored  and  cher 
ished  singer  whose  hand  the  youth  and  maidens  kiss, 
and  in  whose  lofty  and  tender  melody  the  older  men 
and  women  hear  once  more  the  accents  of  their  early 
aspiration,  and  own  a  consolation  for  long-baffled  hopes. 

'  And  though  at  times,  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way.' " 

The   Christian   Register   had   these  sentences:  "'It 


136  HENKY    WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

often  happens,'  said  Thomas  a  Kempis,  'that  a  stranger, 
whom  the  voice  of  fame  had  made  illustrious,  loses  all 
the  brightness  of  his  character  the  moment  he  is  seen 
and  known.'  Such  was  not  the  case  with  Henry  Wads- 
worth  Longfellow.  To  know  him  as  a  man  was  to  add 
to  the  impression  he  had  made  as  a  poet.  The  sweet 
ness,  the  refinement,  the  gentle  and  lovable  qualities  of 
his  character,  strongly  endeared  him  to  those  who  came 
within  the  circle  of  his  personal  influence.  It  was  this 
underlying  richness  of  his  nature  which  bloomed  into 
fragrance  and  color  in  his  poetry." 

At  a  memorial  service  in  the  Unitarian  Church  of 
East  Boston,  Sunday,  April  2,  1882,  Gov.  John  Davis 
Long  spoke  as  follows :  — 

"  It  was  a  delightful  thought  to  devote  the  happiness 
and  April  softness  of  this  Sunday  afternoon,  this  best 
day  of  our  cheerful  and  sunny  religion,  to  Longfellow, 
—  to  the  companionship  of  an  exquisite,  uplifting  poet, 
and  to  the  influence  of  a  gentle,  refining  spirit,  which 
now,  and  for  time  to  come,  will  mellow  our  sadnesses 
with  tender  hymns  of  resignation,  will  inspire  us  far  up 
the  heights  with  his  soul-stirring  songs,  and  will  fill  our 
lives,  though  we  grow  to  be  bent  and  gray,  with  chil 
dren's  hours.  We  are  here  to  sing  with  him,  not  to 
mourn  him.  Why  is  it  that  we  used  to  shudder  at  this 
death,  which  now  we  find  only  strings  the  chords  of  a 
more  comprehending  love,  and  opens  full  to  view  the 
rarer  sweetness  and  the  pure  gold  which  the  dust  of  life 
half  hid  before  ?  Have  you  not  looked  at  a  picture,  and 
only  been  blinded  by  the  sunbeam  that  shot  across  it? 
It  was  not  till  the  sunbeam  went  out  and  died,  that  the 
lineaments  stood  forth  relieved,  distinct,  and  perfect. 
What  a  poor  and  meagre  chain  of  little-meaning  links 


TRIBUTE   OF  GOVERNOR   LONG.  137 

is  this  narrative  of  dates  and  events,  which  we  some 
times  call  a  man's  life !  It  is  of  little  consequence, 
except  for  the  dear  association's  sake,  what  was  the 
name  or  residence  or  birthplace  or  age  of  the  poet.  Of 
what  interest  to  us  is  even  the  great  globe  of  the  sun  in 
itself,  compared  with  the  radiance  which  is  its  soul  and 
which  fills  the  universe  with  light?  Do  not  tell  me  that 
Longfellow  was  born,  and  had  honors  and  degrees  and 
a  professorship,  and  crossed  the  seas ;  for  these  things 
come  and  go,  and  now  flash,  now  faint.  But  tell  me 
that  his  mind  was  full  of  gentle  and  ennobling  thoughts ; 
for  these  live  forever,  and  are  now  in  your  hearts  and 
speaking  in  you.  Tell  me  that  he  loved  children,  and 
wrote  songs  for  them  and  of  them  ;  and  let  me  hear  my 
little  girl,  as  she  comes  down  the  stairs  in  the  morning, 
repeat  untaught  the  verses  which  he  made,  and  which 
are  a  bridge  from  his  soul  to  hers,  and  from  all  human 
souls  to  one  another.  The  material  is  nothing,  and  dies; 
but  the  soul  sings  on,  and  in  these  tributes  which  we 
and  many  another  assembly  are  paying  it,  we  are  ac 
knowledging,  we  are  asserting,  we  are  proving  its  im 
mortality.  When  some  poor  creature  with  nothing  but 
a  throne  and  a  crown  is  dead,  his  subjects  hail  his  succes 
sor,  and  shout,  The  king  is  dead,  long  live  the  king! 
When  our  king,  the  poet,  is  laid  to  rest,  we  may  well 
cry,  The  poet  is  dead,  long  live  the  poet!  For  he  succeeds 
himself,  and  is  dead  only  to  live,  even  on  earth,  a  larger 
and  more  present  life  in  his  verse,  and  in  the  songs  and 
hearts  of  the  people. 

"  It  is  a  poor  commonplace  to  say  that  Longfellow  is 
the  poet  of  the  people,  for  no  poet  is  a  great  or  true  poet 
who  is  not  that.  And  what  a  tribute  is  this  to  our 
common  humanity  !  Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 


138  HENRY    WADSWORTII  LONGFELLOW. 

not  so  much  that  we  can  make  our  lives  sublime,  as  that 
our  lives  are  sublime,  if  only  we  will  not  cumber  or 
debase  them.  Not  by  putting  into  melody  something 
that  is  beyond  and  above  you  and  me,  not  by  breathing 
a  music  so  exquisite  that  it  never  trembles  in  our  fancies 
and  prayers,  does  the  poet  rise  to  excellence ;  but  by 
voicing  the  affections,  the  finer  purpose,  the  noblenesses, 
that  are  in  the  great  common  nature,  — in  the  sailor  up 
the  shrouds,  in  the  maiden  lashed  to  the  floating  mast, 
in  the  mother  laying  away  her  child,  in  the  schoolboy 
at  his  task  or  play  or  counting  the  sparks  that  fly 
from  the  blacksmith's  forge,  in  the  youth  whose  heart 
beats  Excelsior,  in  the  man  at  his  work  or,  when  he 
rests  from  it,  raided  by  blue-eyed  banditti  from  the  stair 
way  and  the  hall.  So  the  poet  teaches  us  not  our  dis 
parity  from  him,  but  our  level  with  him  ;  not  our  mean 
ness,  but  our  loftiness.  Let  us  not  forget  that  he  owes 
as  much  to  those  who  inspire  him  to  sing  their  thoughts, 
as  they  to  him  for  singing  them.  Or,  rather,  not  trying 
to  strike  the  balance  of  credit,  let  this  name  and  memory 
and  life  of  Longfellow,  this  recognition  of  the  poet  and 
the  poet's  work,  in  which  we  are  all  sharers  in  common, 
lift  us  all,  as  he  would  have  wished,  to  higher  consecra 
tion,  to  the  sweet,  angelic  community  of  finer  feeling 
and  thinking,  and  to  that  moral  elevation,  like  a  dewy 
hill  in  the  morning  sunrise,  where  we  all  wake  to  the 
divinity  of  our  natures  and  the  glory  of  these  souls  that 
come  from  God's  own  harmony.  At  such  a  lofty  and 
serene  height,  we  find  there  has  been  and  can  be  no 
death.  For  here  is  Dickens,  and  the  children  are  laugh 
ing  and  crying  by  turns  at  his  humor  or  his  tears.  Here 
are  the  rounded  character  of  Washington,  the  eloquent 
loyalty  of  Webster,  the  patient  faitli  of  Lincoln,  all  up- 


TRIBUTE  OF  GOVERN  OK   LONG.  139 

holding,  far  more  than  before,  the  idea  of  a  nation  of 
liberty  and  union.  Here  are  the  serene  illumination  of 
Channing  and  the  chivalrous  enthusiasm  of  Bellows. 
We  do  not  see  them,  but  they  live  and  breathe  and  are 
of  the  very  air  in  which  we  live  and  move.  Something 
is  indeed  gone  from  them,  but  it  is  only  the  dross.  And 
so  Longfellow  was  never  more  present  with  you  than 
here  and  now.  It  is  tfor  us  to  tune  our  hearts  and 
voices  in  harmony  with  his.  Remember  that  his  fame 
and  effluence  came  not  so  much  from  the  long  poems, — 
these  are  in  most  poets  often  buoyed  by  the  shorter 
songs,  —  but  from  these  utterances  of  the  heart  which, 
like  the  Psalm  of  Life,  Resignation,  The  Day  is  done, 
The  Children's  Hour,  The  Footsteps  of  Angels,  seem 
like  the  spoken  language  of  our  own  souls.  The  music 
he  wrote  is  all  lying  unwritten  in  us.  Let  us  sing  it 
in  our  lives,  which  we  can,  as  he  sung  it  from  his  pen, 
which  we  cannot. 

"It  was  a  beautiful  life.  It  was  felicitous  beyond 
ordinary  lot,  and  yet  not  so  far  beyond.  The  birds  sang 
in  its  branches.  The  pleasant  streams  ran  through  it. 
The  sun  shone  and  the  April  showers  fell  softly  down 
upon  it.  The  winds  hushed  it  to  sleep.  And,  while 
now  he  falls  asleep,  let  us  read  his  verse  anew;  and 
through  the  lines  let  us  read  him,  and  draw  into  our 
lives  something  of  these  serenities  and  upliftings.  So 
for  ourselves  and  one  another,  remembering  this  Sunday 
afternoon,  remembering  the  poet's  life,  living  hereafter 
with  the  poet's  hymns  in  our  ears,  may  we,  like  him, 
leave  behind  us  footprints  in  the  sands  of  time ;  may  our 
sadness  resemble  sorrow  only  as  the  mist  resembles  the 
rain ;  may  we  know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is  to  suffer 
and  be  strong ;  may  we  wuke  the  better  soul  that  slum- 


140  HENRY    WADSWOHTH  LONGFELLOW. 

bered  to  a  holy,  calm  delight ;  may  we  never  mistake 
heaven's  distant  lamps  for  sad  funereal  tapers  ;  and 
may  we  ever  hear  the  voice  from  the  sky  like  a  falling 
star, —  Excelsior  ! " 

On  Sunday,  April  2,  Dr.  Cyrus  A.  Bartol  delivered 
a  eulogy  upon  Longfellow.  It  was  filled  with  the  sweet 
fragrance  and  mellow  maturity  of  thought  and  diction 
which  make  Dr.  Bartol's  sermons  such  enduring  gems 
of  Christian  oratory.  He  said :  — 

"  I  knew  the  early  haunts  in  Portland  of  his  fledgling 
muse,  spreading  its  wing  to  the  woods  on  the  bay  and 
the  observatory  on  the  hill,  hovering  over  the  wharf  and 
the  ropewalk,  looking  into  the  sky  and  the  creek,  listen 
ing  to  the  wind  and  the  brook  and  the  sea.  How  little 
he  thought  some  of  his  lines  would  come  to  be  trans 
lated  into  ten  languages,  to  have  popularity  without 
precedent,  —  one  of  his  pieces,  '  The  Hanging  of  the 
Crane,'  not  a  very  long  poem,  having  been  sold  for  four 
thousand  dollars,  a  price  beyond  all  parallel  in  this 
country !  I  have  some  personal  cause  to  speak  of  him. 
Almost  fifty-four  years  ago  Mr.  Longfellow,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-three,  taught  in  Bowdoin  College,  Bruns 
wick,  Me.,  the  Spanish  language  and  French  to  me,  a 
boy  of  sixteen. 

"  I  had  listened  with  him  to  the  same  instruction  from 
that  man  of  genius,  Dr.  Nichols,  in  Portland,  his  native 
town.  He  was  the  same  gentleman  then,  instinctively 
treating  every  student  as  such,  that  sat  in  the  Bowdoin 
or  afterwards  the  Harvard  recitation-rooms.  Just  so, 
too,  he  walked  Boston  streets,  or  at  home  yonder  an 
swered  every  letter,  received  every  caller,  wrote  his 
name  in  every  album,  gave  his  autograph  to  boys  and 
girls  without  number,  won  the  love  and  praise  of  school- 


TRIBUTE   OF  DE.    13ARTOL.  141 

children  throughout  the  land,  and  was  so  large  and  free 
in  his  hospitality  that  I,  for  one,  felt  it  a  duty  rather  to 
stay  away  from  his  frequented  house,  in  the  doubtless 
vain  fear  that  even  his  abundant  courtesy  might  be 
overtasked  or  strained. 

"  From  his  father,  whom  I  well  remember,  this  most 
fortunate  of  our  poets,  resembling  him  in  feature,  also 
inherited  a  singular  modest  and  winsome  mood  of  tem 
per,  only  barely  stirred  as  by  American  slavery  into 
burning  heat,  as  though  a  beam  of  the  moon  became  one 
of  the  sun.  Never  did  imagination  have  happier  blend 
ing  with  love.  His  fancy  transfigured  the  details  of 
common  life.  Nothing  to  his  eye  was  stiff  and  stark 
and  straight.  All  dariced  and  sang,  revolved  or  swung. 
Every  thing  and  everybody,  like  the  person  in  the  nurs 
ery-ballad  with  rings  and  bells,  to  his  ear  made  music 
wherever  it  went.  With  no  other  bard  had  the  measure 
such  freedom  and  ease.  He  could  not  hear  of  Acadia 
but  Evarigeline  started  up,  nor  think  of  Indian  story 
without  Hiawatha,  nor  see  the  word  '  Excelsior '  on  a 
bit  of  paper  but  the  youth  scaled  the  mountain.  The 
ocean-cable  that  brought  to  our  breakfast-boards  lauda 
tions  of  the  London  press  the  next  morning  after  his 
decease  showed  what  universal  esteem  he  was  held  in, 
how  broad  and  cosmopolite  the  web  of  sympathy  that 
drew  his  fellows  to  him  by  millions  of  threads,  and  how 
mankind  are  woven  together  and  telegraph  to  each 
other  by  every  tone  of  harmony  and  syllable  of  truth. 
Beyond  any  other  writer  of  our  time,  he  made  the 
music,  the  '  folk-songs  '  of  the  English  race.  The  Scot 
tish  Burns  savs  of  a  projected  piece  of  his  own,  — 

( Perhaps  it,  may  turn  out  a  sang, 
Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon.' 


142  HENRY    WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

"  Dewey,  the  impressive  preacher,  and  Longfellow, 
the  melodious  rhymer,  had  the  very  same  word  of  God 
to  say  or  sing,  as  if  the  eloquent  periods  of  the  former 
had  but  been  raised  to  a  higher  power  in  the  rhythmical 
accords  of  the  latter,  the  identical  truth  in  verse  reach 
ing  a  thousand  to  one  that  would  peruse  or  had  listened 
to  the  homiletic  prose.  Indeed,  this  singer  has  become 
part  of  the  atmosphere  with  his  song,  in  which  sorrow 
is  more  musical  than  joy.  He  is  in  the  air  we  breathe, 
he  is  part  of  the  light  we  see  by,  he  breaks  part  of  the 
bread  we  eat :  and  the  marvel  of  the  phenomenon  is 
that  by  no  peculiar  or  sublime  originality  he  so  becomes. 
He  ranks  not  with  the  grander  bards  of  the  nations  — 
Greek,  Roman,  Italian,  German,  English  —  in  every  age. 
He  must  be  placed  among  the  minor,  secondary  ones, 
if  we  compare  him  with  Homer,  Dante,  Shakspeare, 
Milton,  and  Wordsworth,  not  to  speak  of  others  nearer 
than  those  to  us  in  time  or  space,  who  have  hewn  out 
of  the  living  rock  their  shrines  or  voiced  at  first  hand 
the  Holy  Ghost.  Because  he  is  so  familiar  and  home 
like,  he  is  so  welcome.  He  does  not  soar  like  Emerson, 
or  dive  like  Browning.  He  does  not  quarry  or  mine. 
He  is  the  ground  swallow,  dear  among  us  and  in  the 
mother  land  ;  not  admired  and  wondered  at,  as  the  eagle 
is,  but  more  cherished  and  oftener  distinctty  in  our  view. 
If  he  is  not  a  virile  guide  through  the  grand  and  dread 
ful  passes,  he  is  a  womanly  comforter. 

"  A  poet  may  be  too  high  or  deep  for  immediate  effect 
or  common  esteem,  and  so  may  have  to  wait,  like  Kepler 
in  science  and  Plato  in  philosophy,  for  a  far-off  future 
to  appreciate  the  work  which  only  a  select  and  sifted 
class  feels  or  suspects  the  beauty  of  now.  He  did  not 
have  to  winnow  his  audience.  What  Longfellow  sur 


TRIBUTE  OF  DH.   BAETOL.  143 

passes  all  his  contemporaries  in,  overmatches  the  com 
rades  and  fellow-artists  who  join  to  love  and  generously 
delight  in  him  and  his  success,  is  his  broad,  present,  and 
instant  influence,  his  sure  striking  of  the  common  chord 
vibrating  and  resounding  through  two  hemispheres  in 
the  human  breast,  his  revealing  to  the  meanest  capacity 
the  poetry  hid  in  the  human  soul,  putting  into  his 
picture-gallery  blacksmith  and  duke,  sailor  and  king, 
translating  not  only  the  Coplas  of  Don  Maurique,  but 
out  of  invisible  ink  on  the  heart's  tables  bringing  out 
the  lines  written  in  the  general  image  of  God,  rendering 
ordinary  experience  of  pleasure  or  toil  into  strains  so 
simple  as  to  be  commonplace,  yet  as  sweet  as  they  are 
clear ;  composing,  not  seldom,  a  symphony,  without 
profundity,  of  delicious  words,  a  combination  of  con 
cords  to  the  ear,  if  not  always  an  interior  creation  of 
melody  created  by  thought,  holding  up  a  mirror  for 
everybody  to  see  his  own  face  in,  idealizing  nature  and 
human  nature,  legend  and  history,  and  making,  to  our 
pride  and  joy  and  gratitude,  poets  of  us  all,  placing  his 
poetry  on  the  level  of  actual  life. 

"  Every  stroke  told.  His  arrows  hit.  With  conscious 
aim  or  unawares,  he  never  missed  his  mark.  Young 
men  and  maidens  he  poetized,  psychologized,  with  his 
verse.  Every  latent  bit  of  romance  in  all  minds  he 
touched  and  stirred  into  life.  Dirge  or  serenade,  his 
music  was  for  the  million,  the  people.  This,  like  the 
old  harper,  has  gone,  not  in  bodily  form,  but  ghost-like, 
from  door  to  door  through  the  land,  for  two  continents, 
stringing  and  striking  his  lyre. 

"  The  modest  man,  devoid  of  boasting,  lowly,  while 
wide  as  the  prairie,  the  Acadian  wood,  or  the  watery 
main,  understood  his  especial  function  and  singular 


144          HENRT  WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

strength.      In  that  charming  poem,  The  Day  is  done, 
he  calls  for  one  to  read  to  him,  — 

'Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 


'  Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 
As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start. 

*  And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 

And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 
Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away.' 

He  is  just  that.  His  marvellous  acceptance  is  especially 
due  to  his  being,  among  poets,  the  consoler.  Mr.  Long 
fellow's  instrument  is  not  the  trumpet,  but  the  flute. 
He  does  not  so  much  stir  as  assure  and  soothe,  more 
lullaby  than  appeal.  He  croons  a  cradle-song  to  this 
great  humanity,  still  a  child,  tired  and  worn,  on  its  way. 
He  gives  the  peace  it  implores.  A  religious  trust 
breathes  through  all  his  books,  the  spirit  of  faith.  He 
flouts  no  one's  convictions.  In  a  doubting  or  half- 
believing  age,  there  is  no  query  of  the  primal  truths  of 
God  and  heaven  on  his  page.  He  sings  to  the  last  as 
his  childhood  learned. 

"  Mr.  Longfellow  is  dead :  but,  as  he  himself  has 
written,  '  The  artist  never  dies ; '  and,  like  Benvenuto 
Cellini  in  gems  and  metals,  he  was  a  worker  in  words. 
The  Latin  poet  Horace  writes,  ;  I  shall  not  wholly  die  ; ' 
and  Shakspeare  in  his  Sonnets  betrays  his  sense  of  im- 


TRIBUTE   OF  MINOT  J.    SAT  AGE.  146 

mortality  ;  and  Milton  avers,  in  one  of  his,  he  can  confer 
fame  on  the  4  Captain,  Colonel,  or  Knight  at  Arms,'  who 
spares  his  dwelling.  This  American  songster  shall  sur 
vive,  like  the  song-birds  in  the  forest  he  loved  to  hear. 
He  tells  us  of  the  hour-glass  on  his  desk,  — 

*  A  handful  of  red  sand,  from  the  hot  clime 

Of  Arab  deserts  brought, 
Within  this  glass  becomes  the  spy  of  Time, 
The  minister  of  Thought.' 

While  the  sand  shall  run  or  flow  may  the  verses  last, — 
clean  as  the  drift  on  the  shore,  pure  as  pearls,  polished 
and  un specked  as  the  coated  grains  in  the  deep,  decora 
tion  and  delight  of  the  world,  from  whose  crowding  he 
did  not,  like  Goethe's  lonely  youth,  turn  aside  to  muse 
deeply,  but  mixed  with  so  humanely  to  give  his  own 
gifts  broadcast  and  gather  his  themes  from  every  scene 
and  sight.  As  a  rosy  cloud,  so  his  mortal  presence 
melts  away ;  but  all  his  genius,  which  was  his  spirit,  is 
left  in  colors  that  are  now  fine  and  fast.  His  excellence, 
his  moral  elevation,  is  large  part  of  his  fame.  Faith, 
Hope,  Love  abiding,  —  was  not  such  not  so  much  the 
burden  as  the  flying  pinion  of  Longfellow  and  Dewey, 
as  of  Paul  ?  They  mount  on  wings,  as  do  the  eagles." 

Rev.  Minot  J.  Savage,  in  his  pulpit  in  Boston,  spoke 
thus  of  the  poet  (the  words  are  given  in  abstract)  :  — 

"Singularly  fortunate  was  the  poet.  He  achieved 
his  reputation  early,  and  kept  it  to  the  last.  As  a 
robin  in  spring  he  was  welcomed.  He  was  heard  and 
given  the  freedom  of  every  home  in  Christendom.  Un 
like  many  unfortunate  and  unappreciated  poets,  he 
flew  on  free  pinions  through  a  clear  sky,  and  only 
ceased  at  the  declining  of  the  sun.  He  went  through 
10 


146  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

life  loving  and  loved,  till  the  light  faded  into  the 
sunrise  of  another  life.  He  made  himself  the  best-loved 
poet  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Probably  more  homes 
in  England  and  America  are  familiar  with  his  poetry 
than  with  that  of  any  other  poet  in  the  world.  He  was 
on  a  level  with  the  people.  Hardly  a  line  he  wrote  is 
not  clear  to  every  one.  Browning,  perhaps  the  greatest 
poet  of  the  century,  is  a  poet  of  scholars,  and  needs  to 
be  interpreted  to  the  people.  Tennyson's  poetry  is 
frequently  a  sinewy  grappling  with  great  problems. 
Longfellow  wrote  but  little  on  transitory  themes.  Low 
ell's  and  Whittier's  poetry  sprang  like  men  full  armed  to 
engage  in  the  conflict  of  the  times.  But  reforms  achieved 
become  history,  and  most  men  are  too  busy  for  any  thing 
but  the  present  duty.  Longfellow  came  into  every  home 
in  the  country." 

On  the  Sunday  following  Longfellow's  death,  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Franklin  Johnson  of  Cambridge  preached  a  sermon 
in  his  memory.  He  said : 

"  His  writings  are  distinguished  for  their  beauty, 
but  they  are  distinguished  not  less  for  their  purity.  As 
he  lay  dying,  there  was  no  line  which  he  would  wish  to 
blot.  His  songs  have  gone  into  all  the  world,  a  help 
to  the  struggling,  an  inspiration  to  the  weak,  a  consola 
tion  to  the  sorrowing,  a  benediction  to  childhood,  a  stay 
and  staff  to  age.  The  pulpit  will  learn  more  and  more 
to  prize  the  aid  he  has  given  it,  and  to  use  his  words  as 
the  Apostle  to  the  Gentiles  used  those  of  the  Greek 
poets  who  had  caught  some  glimpses  of  divine  truth, 
and  had  uttered  their  thought  in  language  made  charm 
ing  with  the  genius  of  song. 

"  Longfellow  may  be  called  pre-eminently  the  poet  of 
humanity.  No  other  poet  has  so  fully  entered  into  om* 


TRIBUTES  FROM  ENGLAND.  147 

various  struggles  and  trials,  and  brought  to  our  strug 
gles  and  trials  so  much  of  hope  and  cheer.  Miss  Bates 
has  collected  those  portions  of  his  writings  which  are 
most  helpful,  under  the  title  of  4  Seven  Voices  of  Sym 
pathy,'  and  they  make  a  large  volume.  From  no  other 
poet  that  ever  wrote  could  so  many  things  of  this  kind 
be  culled.  We  find  in  the  writings  of  all  great  sing 
ers  utterances  which  go  to  our  hearts,  and  aid  us  in  the 
pain  and  sadness  of  life ;  though  usually  they  are  few 
and  far  between.  But  they  constitute  the  very  sub 
stance  of  all  that  our  poet  has  produced." 

TRIBUTES  FROM  ENGLAND. 

There  were  many  tributes  of  respect  from  England. 
The  Times  said,  "The  purity  of  Mr.  Longfellow's 
thoughts,  his  affinity  with  all  that  is  noblest  in  human 
nature,  his  unfailing  command  of  refined,  harmonious 
language,  will  continue  to  draw  readers  notwithstanding 
the  judgment  of  critics  that  he  is  not  a  poet  of  the  very 
first  rank.  It  will  seem  to  many  that  his  death  marks 
the  close  of  a  distinct  era  of  American  literature.  One 
cannot  readily  point  to  worthy  successors  of  the  brilliant 
group  to  which  he  belonged." 

Said  The  Globe,  "  It  is  not  yielding  to  the  supposed 
prevailing  tendency  indiscriminately  to  extol  Americans 
to  say  that  the  death  of  Mr.  Longfellow  is  a  national 
loss  to  England.  A  general  and  true  appreciation  was 
accorded  him  here,  even  at  a  time  when  America  was 
anything  but  popular." 

The  Telegraph  said,  "The  place  Longfellow  occu 
pies  in  English  literature  is  decidedly  bright.  He  is 
almost  as  well  known  and  widely  read  in  England  as 
in  America.  His  influence  has  been  wholly  good.  As 


148  HENRY    WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

long  as  the  English  language  lasts,  his  works  will  be 
quoted  as  models  of  simplicity  of  style,  and  purity  of 
thought.  Death  has  taken  America's  greatest  literary 
son." 

PERSONAL  APPEARANCE  AND   HABITS. 

Among  the  recent  friends  of  Mr.  Longfellow  was 
Madam  A.  Macchetta,  better  known  by  her  maiden 
name,  Miss  Blanche  Roosevelt,  the  young  cantatrice 
who  took  the  part  of  Pandora  when  his  Masque  was 
put  upon  the  stage  in  New  York  and  Boston.  She 
often  visited  him  at  Cambridge  and  at  Nahant,  and  is 
now  preparing  a  book  about  him  to  be  called  "  Remi 
niscences  of  a  Poet's  Life."  From  the  manuscript  of 
this  volume  the  following  description  of  Mr.  Long 
fellow's  personal  appearance  has  been  furnished  to  the 
public  :  "  His  face,  filled  with  rugged  lines,  presents 
a  contour  of  great  firmness  and  intelligence.  The 
nose  is  Roman  rather  than  Greek,  with  the  very  slight 
est  aquiline  tendency.  His  eyes  are  clear,  straight 
forward,  almost  proud,  yet  re-assuring.  They  are 
rather  deeply  set,  and  shaded  by  overhanging  brows. 
In  moments  of  lofty  and  inspired  speech  they  have  an 
eagle-like  look;  the  orbs  deepen  and  scintillate  and 
flash ;  like  the  great  bird  of  prey,  they  seem  to  soar  off 
into  endless  space,  grasping  in  the  talons  of  the  men 
tal  vision  things  unattainable  to  less  ambitious  flight. 
With  his  moods  they  vary,  and  when  calm  nothing 
could  exceed  the  quietness  of  their  expression.  If  sad, 
an  infinite  tenderness  reposes  in  their  depths ;  and,  if 
merry,  they  sparkle  and  bubble  over  with  fun.  In  fact, 
before  the  poet  speaks,  these  traitorous  eyes  have 
already  betrayed  his  humor.  I  must  not  forget  the 
greatest  of  all  expressions,  humility.  To  one  whose  soul 


150     HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

and  mind  are  given  to  divine  thought,  it  is  in  the  eye 
that  this  sentiment  finds  its  natural  outcome ;  and  the 
world  knows  that  Longfellow's  faith  is  the  crowning 
gem  in  a  diadem  of  virtues.  His  face  is  not  a  mask,  but 
an  open  book,  —  a  positive  index  to  his  character.  The 
forehead  is  high,  prominent,  and  square  at  the  temples; 
numberless  fine  lines  are  engraved  on  its  surface,  and 
on  either  side  a  slender  serpentine  vein  starts  from  the 
eyes,  and,  mounting  upwards,  loses  itself  beneath  a  mass 
of  silvery  white  hair.  I  should  scarcely  call  them  the 
work  of  time,  but  rather  the  marks  of  an  over-active  in 
telligence.  They  may  have  appeared  to  others  at  thirty 
as  plainly  as  they  do  to  me  to-day.  The  cheek-bones 
are  high,  and  near  the  jaw  the  cheeks  are  slightly  sunken. 
The  mouth  is  the  most  sensitive  feature  in  the  face :  its 
character  is  mobile,  even  yielding,  absolutely  belying 
the  outspoken  firmness  of  the  other  features.  The  lips 
are  rather  full,  sharply  outlined,  and  faintly  tinged  with 
color.  They  close  softly,  and  are  sometimes  tremulous 
with  emotional  speech.  Longfellow  might  be  coaxed, 
but  never  driven.  The  whole  of  the  face  glows  with  a 
beautiful  carnation,  more  suggestive  of  youth  than  old 
age.  The  lower  part  is  completely  hidden  by  a  wavy 
beard  of  snowy  whiteness,  which  also  half  conceals  the 
slender  throat.  The  chest  is  broad,  not  deep.  With  a 
supple  and  graceful  carriage,  he  is  as  straight  as  an 
arrow,  and  has  a  nature  of  extraordinary  vigor.  The 
hair  mingling  with  the  beard  sets  the  rosy  face  in  an 
aureole  of  snow.  The  charm  of  a  well-bred  manner 
asserts  itself  over  every  other  personal  attribute." 

To  this  description  may  be  added  an  account  of  his 
daily  life  at  seventy.  He  rose  early,  took  a  rather 
light  breakfast,  and,  if  the  day  were  pleasant,  generally 


LITERARY  HABITS.  151 

set  out  for  a  walk,  either  in  his  own  grounds  or  else 
where,  varying  his  route  each  day,  if  possible.  It  was 
always  his  custom  to  carry  his  overcoat  on  his  arm  if 
there  was  the  slightest  indication  of  a  change  in  the 
weather,  i.e.,  a  fall  of  the  thermometer.  Whenever  he 
was  preparing  any  work  or  poem  for  publication,  he 
would  often  call  on  his  printers  at  the  University  Press, 
not  far  from  his  residence,  and  receive  and  return  proofs 
of  his  works.  He  studied  his  matter  carefully  after  it 
was  in  type.  He  kept  his  productions  by  him,  and  used 
the  file  with  patient  industry.  The  Divine  Tragedy 
is  said  to  have  been  entirely  re-written  after  it  was  in 
type.  Perhaps  the  recasting  of  it  spoiled  it,  for  it  is 
unpopular.  He  sometimes  (not,  as  has  been  stated, 
always)  sent  his  copy  to  the  publishers  in  a  printed 
form.  His  manuscripts  were  written  with  a  lead  pencil, 
in  a  clear,  round,  back  hand,  and  he  has  preserved 
them  all  bound  in  handsome  volumes.  In  writing  he 
made  many  erasures  with  a  rubber,  writing  neatly  over 
the  erased  spaces,  so  that  the  manuscript  presented  a 
perfectly  neat  appearance.  It  was  his  custom  to  have 
every  scrap  of  his  manuscripts  sent  back  to  him  from 
the  printers. 

He  was  accustomed  to  alter  more  or  less  the  poems 
published  in  magazines  and  papers  before  putting  them 
into  book-form.  He  was  never  discovered  writing  a 
poem.  Mr.  Longfellow7  could  not  write  "  poems  to 
order  "  for  anniversaries,  re-unions,  and  other  occasions. 
Apropos  of  this  fact,  a  little  incident  is  in  point.  At 
the  time  of  the  death  of  President  Garfield,  Mr.  Moses 
King  of  Cambridge  called  on  the  poet,  at  the  request  of 
the  managers  of  The  Boston  Daily  Globe,  for  the  pur 
pose  of  securing,  if  possible,  a  poem  for  that  journal. 


152  HENRY    WADSWOJITH  LONGFELLOW. 

He  was  authorized  to  offer  as  much  as  one  thousand 
dollars,  if  necessary,  to  secure  the  coveted  prize.  But 
Longfellow,  although  he  Avas  known  at  the  time  to  have 
in  his  pocket  the  sonnet  which  later  appeared  in 
The  Independent,  and  was  subsequently  reprinted  in 
The  Poets'  Tributes  to  Garfield,  could  not  be  influ 
enced  by  any  means  to  part  with  it,  because  he  had  not 
yet  satisfied  himself  that  it  was  perfect  enough  to  give 
to  the  world ;  this,  too,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Joaquin 
Miller  had  read  it  previously,  and  had  congratulated 
Longfellow  on  its  production.  As  illustrating  this 
positive  reluctance  to  write  for  occasions,  one  who  was 
witness  to  the  colloquy  says,  "  I  remember  with  what 
earnestness  Gilmore  tried  to  persuade  him  to  write  an 
ode  for  the  opening  of  the  great  Peace  Jubilee,  picturing 
with  all  his  own  enthusiasm  the  greatness  of  the  occa 
sion,  and  the  glory  it  would  give  the  poet.  But  no. 
He  never  sought  popularity :  it  came  to  him.  He  could 
not  do  any  thing  for  the  sake  of  applause." 

A  word  should  be  said  of  his  humor.  It  was  of  so 
quiet  and  furtive  a  nature  that  it  was  only  discovered 
by  personal  intercourse.  One  who  knew  him,  speak 
ing  of  the  tender  glance  of  his  eye,  says:  "It  had 
a  peculiar  brightness.  There  was  a  sharpness,  yet 
softness,  in  it  that  was  fascinating,  —  a  lurking  wit  that 
seemed  to  peep  out  from  behind  his  wisdom."  His 
glance  was  penetrating  and  keen,  and  seemed  to  read 
one  through  and  through.  Professor  Charles  Eliot 
Norton  has  thus  alluded  to  his  friend's  humor :  "  One 
day  I  ventured  to  remonstrate  with  him  on  his  endur 
ance  of  the  persecutions  of  one  of  the  worst  of  the  class 
of  mendicants,  who  to  lack  of  modesty  added  lack  of 
honesty,  —  a  wretched  creature;  and  when  I  had  done, 


HIS   STUDY.  153 

he  looked  at  me  with  a  pleasant,  reproving,  humorous 
glance,  and  said :  '  Charles,  who  would  be  kind  to  him 
if  I  were  not?'  It  was  enough.  He  was  helped  by  a 
gift  of  humor,  which,  though  seldom  displayed  in  his 
poems,  lighted  up  his  talk,  and  added  a  charm  to  his 
intercourse." 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  Mr.  Longfellow  spoke 
several  European  languages  fluently.  A  French  gentle 
man  well  known  in  Boston  told  a  friend  that  Mr.  Long 
fellow  was  the  only  American  he  knew  who  spoke 
French  quite  like  a  Parisian. 

His  study  at  Craigie  House  has  been  thus  described 
by  a  foreigner :  — 

"  A  door  opens,  and  you  are  in  the  study  of  the  great 
poet  of  the  New  World.  The  walls  are  panelled  to 
the  ceiling  with  dark  polished  oak ;  and  you  see  from 
the  circular-headed  windows  with  their  heavy  wooden 
mullions  and  the  tall  oak  chimney-piece  with  its  classic 
ornamentation,  that  the  architect  has  but  reproduced 
some  mansion  of  the  early  Georgian  era  with  which  he 
was  familiar,  across  the  sea.  At  one  end  of  the  room 
stand  lofty  oaken  bookcases,  framed  in  drapery  of  dark 
red  cloth.  Here  and  there  on  ornamental  brackets  are 
some  marble  busts,  among  them  a  fine  effigy  of  Wash 
ington.  Easy  chairs  and  reading  stands  are  scattered 
around. 

"  In  the  centre  of  the  room,  which  is  covered  with  a 
well-worn  Persian  carpet,  there  sits,  writing  at  a  round 
table  littered  with  books  and  papers,  a  medium-sized, 
bony  man,  apparently  about  seventy.  His  hair  and  beard 
are  white  as  snow  ;  but  from  beneath  an  ample  forehead, 
indicating  considerable  intellectual  power,  there  gleam 
a  pair  of  dark  lustrous  eyes,  from  which  the  fire  of 


154    HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

youth  seems  not  yet  to  have  fled.  He  rises  with  a 
grave  sweetness  to  salute  you.  Some  chance  remark 
or  some  tone  of  your  voice,  that  recalled  to  him  the 
wild  fells  and  moors  of  distant  Yorkshire,  makes  }^ou  at 
once  something  more  than  a  mere  passing  stranger. 
He  tells  you  with  pride  of  the  remote  Yorkshire  ances 
try  to  which  perhaps  his  poetry  owes  something  of  its 
manliness  and  vigor.  And,  if  you  happen  to  be  famil 
iar  with  many  of  the  scenes  which  he  visited  nearly 
hali  a  century  ago  in  Europe,  he  listens  with  strange 
interest  as  you  tell  of  the  changes  which  time  has 
wrought  in  some  of  the  spots  on  which  his  muse  has 
bestowed  an  undying  fame." 

Mr.  Longfellow's  study  generally  contained  flowers. 
Upon  the  walls  are  crayon  likenesses  of  Emerson,  Haw 
thorne,  and  Sumner.  The  bookcases  completely  cover 
the  side*  of  the  room.  Among  other  precious  relics  are 
Coleridge's  inkstand,  Tom  Moore's  waste-paper  basket, 
a  fragment  of  Dante's  coffin,  the  children's  arm-chair, 
and  the  pen  presented  by  "  Helen  of  Maine." 

He  was  the  most  modest  of  men.  His  gentle,  un 
assuming  manner  charmed  his  friends  very  much.  Mr. 
Thomas  J.  Kiernan  of  the  Harvard  Library  says  that 
Mr.  Longfellow  used  the  College  library  very  little, 
his  own  private  library  being  very  complete ;  but 
when  he  did  come  in  to  consult  a  work  he  was  ex 
tremely  modest,  seeming  to  be  afraid  of  making 
trouble.  He  would  work,  away  between  the  two  cases 
of  the  card-catalogue  for  a  long  time  before  the  assist 
ants  noticed  his  presence,  or  could  render  him  any 
help.  What  could  be  more  charming  than  such  utter 
freedom  from  pride  and  assumption?  Only  the  per 
sonal,  and  very  intimately  personal,  friends  of  Mr. 


156  HENEY    WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Longfellow  will  ever  be  able  to  tell  the  story  of  his 
inner  life.  Some,  even  of  his  own  townsmen,  consid 
ered  him  aloof  and  unsocial.  They  did  not  know  that 
what  seemed  so  in  him  was  only  the  result  of  his 
shrinking  sensitiveness  and  exquisitely  tuned  suscepti 
bility. 

He  has  been  charged  with  lack  of  sympathy  with 
the  great  common  humanity,  —  with  the  broad  national 
life  of  his  own  country.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is, 
that  he  was  sensitive,  he  was  a  scholar,  he  had  a 
scholar's  fastidiousness,  and  he  was  the  gentlest  of 
poets.  Being  so,  he  was  not  born  to  enter  into  the 
stormy  life  of  the  rude  and  comparatively  coarse-fibred 
masses :  he  did  not  sympathize  with  them  in  the  full 
range  of  their  existence  to  such  an  extent,  for  instance, 
as  Walt  Whitman  does;  he  only  entered  sympatheti 
cally  into  their  spiritual  natures  ;  he  interpreted  their 
gentler  and  holier  moods,  and  sympathized  with  them 
in  their  joys,  their  sufferings,  and  their  bereavements. 
Yes,  he  did  sympathize  with  our  common  humanity, 
but  as  a  poet,  as  a  scholar.  We  may  blame  him,  if  we 
choose,  for  a  certain  aloofness ;  but  this  was  the  source 
of  his  strength.  We  are  always  quarrelling  over  the 
great  poets ;  but  there  is  not  one  of  them  that  the 
world  could  spare,  —  all  different,  all  imperfect,  but 
all  the  delight  and  solace  of  mankind.  Different  im 
pressions  as  to  his  sociability  exist,  especially  in  his 
own  Cambridge.  A  neighbor  of  his,  writing  anony 
mously  to  The  New  York  Independent,  says  that  "  he 
became  closely  identified  with  all  classes  of  the  com 
munity  in  which  he  lived,"  and  that  there  was  "  ap 
parently  absolute  unconsciousness  of  distinction "  in 
the  "  intercourse  of  Mr.  Longfellow  and  his  family 


HIS   SENSIBILITY.  157 

with  Cambridge  society."  This  is  undoubtedly  true. 
But  one  must  remember  the  position  in  which  a  world- 
famous  man  is  placed:  he  cannot,  if  he  is  sensitive, 
endure  to  be  stared  at  incessantly  by  everybody,  and 
especially  if  he  lives  in  a  village,  such  as  Old  Cam 
bridge  essentially  is,  and  always  has  been.  The  world 
knows  Mr.  Longfellow  as  the  most  cordial  of  hosts.  He 
loved  all  gentle  people.  He  could  love  children  with 
out  feeling  any  jar  or  disturbance :  hence  his  frequent 
exhibitions  of  fondness  for  them.  His  phenomenal 
kindness  to  strangers  is  proverbial.  Let  us  not  com 
plain,  then,  of  his  aloofness,  but  take  him  as  he  was, 
and  thankfully. 

"  According  to  liis  virtue  let  us  use  him." 

He  was  a  man  who  had  suffered  deeply,  and  more 
deeply  than  others  on  account  of  his  sensibility. 
His  first  wife  died  in  the  bloom  of  womanhood;  and 
his  second  idolized  wife  was  burned  to  death  before 
his  eyes,  while  friend  after  friend  went  away  into  the 
silent  land,  leaving  him  behind.  Suffering  gave  a 
sweet  and  pensive  sadness  of  tone  to  his  poetry.  And 
yet  his  essential  cheerfulness  never  left  him  for  any 
long  period  of  time.  He  was  religious,  a  believer  in 
God  and  in  immortality  ;  and  his  life  was  blameless,  and 
sweet  with  love  and  good  deeds.  One  who  knew  him 
says,  — 

"  To  the  poorer  classes  Mr.  Longfellow  was  endeared 
by  his  discriminating  and  unostentatious  benevolence. 
I  happened  to  be  often  brought  in  contact  with  a  very 
intelligent  but  cynical  and  discontented  laboring-man, 
who  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  railing  against  the 
rich.  To  such  men,  wealth  and  poverty  are  the  only 


158  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW^ 

distinctions  in  life.  In  one  of  his  denunciations  1 
heard  him  say,  '  I  will  make  an  exception  of  one  rich 
man,  and  that  is  Mr.  Longfellow.  You  have  no  idea 
how  much  the  laboring-men  of  Cambridge  think  of 
him.  There  is  many  and  many  a  family  that  gets  a 
load  of  coal  from  Mr.  Longfellow,  without  anybody 
knowing  where  it  comes  from.' " 

The  writer  of  this  volume,  although  having  access 
to  some  details  of  the  inner  life  of  the  poet,  has  studi 
ously  refrained  from  making  use  of  them,  agreeing 
therein  with  his  friend  Professor  Charles  Eliot  Norton, 
that  these  "  sweet  privacies  of  life  "  should  be  scrupu 
lously  respected.  If  others  have  not  this  feeling,  the 
world  will  some  day  know  in  how  many  cases  of  dis 
tress  the  purse  of  the  great-hearted  singer  was  opened 
to  relieve  suffering  and  want. 

After  the  above  paragraph  had  been  written,  there 
appeared  in  The  New  York  Independent  an  interesting 
letter  from  an  anonymous  lady  writer,  who  had  been 
encouraged  and  financially  assisted  by  the  Cambridge 
poet.  She  had  come  to  Boston  from  a  distant  part  of 
the  country,  and  was  eking  out  a  living  by  teaching 
music  and  writing  for  the  press.  "  One  day,"  she  says, 
"  I  visited  an  editor,  with  some  verses  of  greater  length 
than  usual.  He  said,  '  This  is  too  long  for  a  newspaper 
or  magazine.  Finish  it,  and  then  I  want  you  to  take  it 
to  Mr.  Longfellow.'  I  opened  my  eyes  in  wonder.  4 1 
go  to  Mr.  Longfellow ! ' '  She  thought  the  editor  was 
speaking  ironically.  It  was  three  months  later  that  she 
one  day  impulsively  decided  to  write  to  the  poet.  She 
received  an  answer  inviting  her  to  visit  him.  She  went, 
and  found  a  life  friend.  She  went  abroad,  and  the 
poet's  constant  care  and  watchfulness  followed  her. 
She  says :  — 


THOUGHTFUL  KINDNESS.  159 

"  At  one  time  his  letters  before  me  show  him  taking 
charge  of  a  production  of  my  pen,  to  place  it  in  the 
hands  of  the  editor ;  at  another,  visiting  the  dusty  office 
of  the  paper  for  which  I  was  writing  letters,  to  sub 
scribe  for  it  with  his  own  hand,  and  the  editor,  who 
never  expected  such  an  honor  to  be  paid  his  poor  paper, 
immediately  begs  me  to  consider  myself  engaged  to 
write  the  following  year.  Finally,  when  I  chose  an 
operatic  career,  and  made  my  debut  in  Italy,  where 
temptations  are  no  longer  temptations,  but  deliberately 
set  nets  of  the  most  intricate  description  to  waylay  and 
trip  the  footsteps  of  the  most  clear-headed,  he  gave  his 
warnings  and  suggestions  very  wisely  and  kindly.  This 
friend  of  friends  taught  me  to  confide  my  trials  to  him, 
until  I  wrote  as  freely  as  if  to  the  pages  of  my  journal- 

"  Again  and  again  would  he  give  some  little  com 
mission  to  do  for  him,  as  if  it  were  granting  him  a  great 
flavor,  while  it  is  only  his  delicate  way  of  presenting  me 
to  persons  who  might  be  interested  in  my  struggles  and 
prove  themselves  friends. 

"  Too  proud  to  reply  to  his  oft-repeated  question  of 
whether  he  might  aid  me,  he  finally  visited  some  of  my 
friends,  to  learn  my  exact  needs ;  and  then  one  New 
Year's  morning  I  remember  myself  seated  on  the  side 
of  my  bed,  where  letters  have  been  brought  to  me,  the 
tears  rolling  down  my  cheeks,  for  I  feared  I  must  yield 
to  the  inevitable  and  go  home.  '  Only  a  little  New 
Year's  gift  that  will  serve  to  buy  gloves,'  said  his  letter. 
Did  he  know  that  it  was  bread,  not  gloves,  I  feared  I 
should  need,  and  which  his  generous  gift  supplied  ? 

"  But  I  copy  from  these  letters,  my  choicest  treasure, 
a  few  paragraphs  which  will  give  an  idea  of  his  thought- 
fulness  and  kindness.  In  one  of  his  earlier  letters  he 
writes :  — 


160  HENRY    WADSWORTU  LONGFELLOW. 

"  '  Your  last  letter  in  Italian  showed  your  great  prog 
ress  in  the  language.  But  now  I  think  it  would  be 
well  to  come  back  to  the  English  again ;  for  one's  pen 
gallops  and  gossips  more  easily  in  one's  native  language, 
and  perhaps  you  would  write  oftener  if  you  wrote  in 
English.  You  can  keep  your  diary  in  Italian ;  and  do 
not  forget  to  put  down  everybody's  name  whom  you 
care  to  remember.  .  .  .  Do  not  mind  what  I  say  about 
writing  in  Italian.  Only  write ;  and,  whether  in  Eng 
lish  or  not,  your  letters  will  always  be  welcome.' 

"  His  criticisms  of  a  young  author's  work  were  ten 
derness  itself,  and  full  of  appreciating  encouragement. 
When  he  made  a  criticism,  it  was  so  delicate  as  to  be 
hardly  felt.  There  was  not  a  bit  of  severity  intended 
in  the  following  mention  of  a  very  immature  and  per 
haps  ambitious  poetical  venture  :  — 

" '  Your  poem  I  read  in  The .  It  is  a  little  bit 

mystical,  but  I  had  no  great  difficulty  in  understanding 
it.  Now  that  you  tell  we  where  it  was  written,  it  has  a 
double  interest  for  me. 

" fc  This  brief  note  is  another  of  my  poor  returns  for 
your  longer  and  better  ones ;  but,  if  you  saw  the  pile 
of  unanswered  letters  heaped  up  around  me,  you  would 
pardon  and  pity  me.' 

"  The  following  was  in  response  to  some  confidences, 
/such  as  I  have  referred  to  above :  — 

"  4 1  feel  now,  more  than  ever  before,  the  dangers  that 
surround  you ;  but  I  am  sure  you  will  be  strong  and 
valiant.  Instead  of  giving  you  good  advice,  I  send  you 
a  song  I  wrote  the  other  day.  It  has  already  been  set 


THOUGHTFUL  KINDNESS.  161 

to  music  two  or  three  times ;  but  that  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  not  set  it  again,  if  you  feel  inclined  to  do  so.' 
"  The  song  is  that  beginning  '  Stay,  stay  at  home,  my 
heart,  and  rest,'  the  last  verse  of  which  is,  — 

*  Then  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest, 
The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest : 
O'er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and  fly, 
A  hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best.' 

"Again  he  writes,  speaking  of  an  attempted  injury :  — 
"'Alas!  an  artist's  life  is  never  without  its  thorns; 
but  it  has  its  roses  also.     Above  all,  it  has  — 

La  procellosa  e  trepida, 
Gioja  d'un  gran  disegno 
.   .   .  La  gloria 
Maggior  dopo  il  pcriglio 
La  fuga  e  la  vittoria. '  " 

Another  instance  of  the  poet's  benevolence  is  fur 
nished  by  a  young  lady  who  tells  her  story  in  The 
Congregationalist.  In  the  year  1867  there  was,  in  a 
well-known  New  England  academy,  a  young  girl  who 
was  trying  to  complete  her  academic  course  with  very 
slender  resources.  At  length  the  time  came  when  she 
must  leave  her  studies,  and  teach,  unless  she  could  ob 
tain  funds.  The  interruption  of  her  studies  would  have 
been  a  serious  injury.  She  thought  of  her  pen  as  a 
means  of  livelihood,  wrote  some  poems,  and  sent  them 
to  Mr.  Longfellow,  hoping  that  his  influence  might  pro 
cure  their  publication.  He  took  them  to  Mr.  James  T. 
Fields  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  then  wrote  to  her 
that  while  the  poems  were  not  exactly  available  for 
that  periodical,  and  neither  he  nor  Mr.  Fields  knew  any 
way  of  disposing  of  them,  yet  they  both  felt  a  great 
11 


162  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

interest  in  her,  and  were  so  desirous  that  she  should 
continue  her  studies  that  they  begged  her  to  accept  an 
enclosed  check  for  a  generous  amount  of  money.  She 
did  accept  it,  finished  her  studies,  became  a  clergyman's 
wife,  and  is  leading  an  influential  and  successful  life. 

LONGFELLOW'S  RELIGIOUS  VIEWS. 

Mr.  Longfellow  was  not  a  member  nor  a  regular 
attendant  of  any  church,  but  had  a  family  pew  in 
Appleton  Chapel  of  Harvard  College.  As  to  his  views 
of  religion  and  theology,  his  poems  are,  if  not  the  only, 
at  least  the  most  faithful,  interpreters ;  and  these  are 
indicative  of  a  Christianity  whose  faith  was  as  bound 
less  as  it  was  simple. 

Illustrative  of  this  are  the  noble  sentiments  expressed 
in  the  following  utterances  of  the  Theologian :  — 

"  And  most  of  all  thank  God  for  this  : 
The  war  and  waste  of  clashing  creeds 
Now  end  in  words,  and  not  in  deeds, 
And  no  one  suffers  loss,  or  bleeds, 
For  thoughts  that  men  call  heresies. 

Must  it  be  Calvin,  and  not  Christ? 
Must  it  be  Athanasian  creeds, 
Or  holy  water,  books,  and  beads  ? 
Must  struggling  souls  remain  conten 
With  councils  and  decrees  of  Trent  ? 

For  others  a  diviner  creed 
Is  living  in  the  life  they  lead. 
The  passing  of  their  beautiful  feet 
Blesses  the  pavement  of  the  street." 

William  Winter  rightly  interprets  the  poet's  life  in 
memorial  verses,  from  which  we  quote  the  lines,  — 


HIS  RELIGION.  163 

"  His  heart  was  pure,  his  purpose  high, 

His  thought  serene,  his  patience  vast : 
He  put  all  strifes  of  passion  by, 

And  lived  to  God,  from  first  to  last." 

Upon  this  subject,  Rev.  Franklin  Johnson,  D.D.,  of 
Cambridge, — a  life-long  student  of  Longfellow,  — with 
rare  appreciation  says,  — 

"  But  4  sweet  and  loving  words  about  him  of  Naza 
reth  '  do  not  constitute  the  sum  of  his  religious  teach 
ing.  He  belonged  to  no  school  of  dogmatic  theology  ; 
and  it  is  idle  for  a  sect  to  claim  one  who  did  not 
identify  himself  with  any  particular  denomination  ;  yet 
it  is  remarkable  that  there  is  scarcely  a  single  important 
doctrine  of  our  holy  religion  which  may  not  be  expressed 
in  his  exquisite  language.  The  excellence  of  the  Scrip 
tures  ;  the  existence,  the  justice,  and  the  love  of  God ; 
the  divinity,  the  miracles,  the  atoning  death,  and  the 
glorious  resurrection  of  Christ ;  the  efficacy  of  prayer, 
the  necessity  of  the  new  birth,  the  forgiveness  of  sins, 
the  salutary  influence  of  the  Church,  and  a  thousand 
other  verities  akin  to  these,  —  may  be  found  upon  his 
pages.  Sometimes  they  occur  in  translations  from  for 
eign  authors,  sometimes  they  are  put  into  the  mouths 
of  historic  characters,  and  sometimes  they  are  the 
utterances  of  his  own  thought ;  but  they  form  one  of 
the  most  prominent  features  of  all  his  writings.  This 
great  man,  who  was  sincerity  itself,  could  not  have 
veined  his  poems  so  deeply  and  so  uniformly  with  the 
truths  of  revelation,  had  he  not  believed  them.  It  is 
equally  remarkable  that  he  wrote  no  syllable  of  doubt 
or  denial ;  that  scepticism  cannot  discover,  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  of  his  works,  a  line  in  which  to 


164  HENRY   WAVSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

clothe  itself.     Hi,  position  was  as  far  as  possible  from 
that  of  Theodore  Parker  and  John  Stuart  Mill." 

RELIGIOUS  LIFE. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Ray  Palmer  speaks  thus  beautifully  of 
the  poet's  religious  life  :  — 

"Most  of  the  poetical  writings  of  Mr.  Longfellow 
reveal  his  genuine  sympathy  with  the  Christian  reli- 
ligion ;  not  only  with  its  aesthetic  aspects,  but  with  the 
grand  spiritual  truths  which  give  it  power  to  awaken 
the  best  affections  and  the  highest  aspirations  of  the 
soul.  Even  his  choice  of  pieces  for  translation  and  his 
legendary  renderings,  in  many  cases,  indicate  the  reli 
gious  habit  of  his  mind ;  as,  for  example,  the  Coplas 
de  Manrique,  The  Image  of  God,  The  Children  of  the 
Lord's  Supper,  and  The  Legend  Beautiful.  Many 
poems,  not  in  form  directly  religious,  bear  about  them 
the  aroma  of  myrrh,  spikenard,  and  frankincense,  as 
offered  on  God's  altars,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  rose 
of  Sharon  and  the  lily  of  the  valley.  One  cannot  but 
recognize  the  genuineness  of  the  Christian  tone,  or, 
where  not  positively  this,  the  elevated  moral  tone, 
which  everywhere  pervades  them.  The  style  of  treat 
ment  is  not  such  as  might  have  been  assumed  by  a 
writer,  who,  in  deference  to  public  opinion,  has  wrought 
into  his  compositions  some  conventional  expressions 
of  respect  for  Christianity.  It  is  such  as  fitly  and 
unequivocally  expresses  the  honest  conviction  and  feel 
ing  of  one  whose  mind  and  heart  have  been  so  entirely 
possessed  by  a  healthful  religious  spirit,  that,  sponta 
neously  and  half-unconsciously,  this  spirit  habitually 
suffuses  the  whole  substance  of  his  thought,  and  be 
comes  an  element  of  his  best  inspirations.  A  religious 


IMMORTALITY.  165 

style  may  easily  be  borrowed.  Genuine  religious  feel 
ing,  it  is  nearly  or  quite  impossible  successfully  to 
counterfeit." 

In  the  Revue  Politique  et  Litteraire  for  April  1, 
1882,  M.  Le'o  Quesnel  has  some  important  remarks 
bearing  upon  the  development  of  Longfellow's  genius. 
He  says  (after  speaking  of  the  death  of  his  second 
wife),  "  From  this  time  onward,  as  he  approaches  the 
evening  of  his  life,  his  tone  becomes  modified.  He  had 
always  been  a  moralist :  he  becomes  a  Christian  moral 
ist.  He  approaches  nearer  and  nearer  to  those  doctrines 
of  Christianity,  the  intimate  affinity  of  which  with 
human  nature  is  only  brought  out  by  suffering.  Still 
the  change  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Longfellow  was  an  evo 
lution,  and  not  a  revolution.  He  had  always  been  too 
much  of  a  poet,  and  too  spiritual,  to  permit  the  change 
which  was  taking  place  within  him  to  be  abruptly  per 
ceived.  It  was  at  first  only  from  certain  secret  signs 
that  a  penetrating  eye  could  discover  it :  there  was 
more  sweetness,  and  more  benevolence  still  towards  all 
men,  more  true  humility  of  soul.  But  little  by  little 
the  ideas  that  took  possession  of  him  made  themselves 
apparent  in  his  works,  and  religious  morality  became 
the  very  marrow  of  his  writings." 

IMMORTALITY. 

The  Rev.  H.  R.  Haweis  of  England,  in  a  work  en 
titled  Poets  in  the  Pulpit,  thus  speaks  of  Longfellow's 
belief  in  immortality  :  — 

"  And  whether  he  touches  on  the  passing  away  of  a 
little  child  in  the  first  dawn  of  life,  or  a  young  woman 
taken  in  the  glowing  bloom  of  youth,  or  the  more  ma 
ture  companion  of  our  later  years,  there  is  the  same 


166  HENRY   WADSWORTB  LONGFELLOW. 

undefinable  glow  of  hope  and  aspiration,  and  the  same 
recurrent  feeling  that  they  are  not  dead,  but  gone  be 
fore,  —  the  very  message  which  every  one  who  has  lost 
a  dear  friend  longs  to  receive.  Ah !  we  often  hear  it 
from  lips  which  pronounce  it  apparently  without  feeling 
it,  and  are  not  able  to  convey  to  those  who  want  to  feel 
it,  the  precious  faith  in  the  existence,  perchance  the 
presence,  of  the  dear,  the  forever-remembered  dead ! 
Then  are  the  words  of  the  true  and  faithful  poet  help 
ful.  He  never  sounds  the  note  of  despair :  doubt  never 
sweeps  darkly  across  his  soul.  But  the  spirit  world  it 
self  becomes  visible  to  him :  he  is  looking  out  from  the 
loneliness  of  his  life  with  the  eyes  of  an  inspired  seer; 
and  we  sit  at  his  feet  and  listen  whilst  he  pours  forth, 
without  constraint  or  effort,  such  a  flood  of  spiritual 
emotion  that  our  drooping  souls  are  indeed  lifted  up 
with  the  hope  that  is  full  of  immortality." 


ANECDOTES   AISTD   LETTERS. 


heading  of  this  portion  of  the  volume  should 
not  lead  the  reader  to  suppose  that  all  the  anec 
dotes  about  Mr.  Longfellow  are  collected  here.  The 
biographical  portion  of  the  work  is  rich  in  anecdotes, 
and  only  those  are  grouped  here  which  could  not  be 
conveniently  woven  into  the  narrative. 

INTERVIEW  WITH  A  FRENCHMAN. 

The  writer  is  indebted  to  Professor  Charles  Eliot 
Norton  for  the  following  little  incident :  A  certain 
Frenchman  called  on  Mr.  Longfellow  for  the  purpose 
of  getting  an  account  of  his  life  to  send  to  some 
journal  in  France.  Mr.  Longfellow,  with  his  usual 
patient  good-nature,  submitted  to  be  interviewed  on  all 
points  connected  with  his  public  and  objective  life.  At 
length  the  Frenchman  said,  "  Maintenant,  monsieur, 
quelques  anecdotes,  s'il  vous  plait,  de  la  vie  intime  ?  "  — 
"  That,"  said  Mr.  Longfellow,  "  is  just  what  I  cannot 
tell  you."  His  inner  life  he  never  revealed  to  the  pub 
lic,  and  let  us  hope  that  these  sacred  privacies  never 
will  be  revealed. 

FAVORITE   PIECES   OF   SCULPTURE. 

When  Mr.  Longfellow  returned  from  Europe  in 
I860,  he  was  enthusiastic  in  his  praise  of  two  pieces 

167 


168  HENRY   WADSWORTII  LONGFELLOW. 

of  sculpture  which  had  been  exhibited, — one  at  the 
World's  Fair  of  1862,  in  London,  and  the  other  at  that 
of  1867,  in  Paris.  They  were  "  The  Reading  Girl "  by 
P.  Magni,  and  "  The  Last  Hours  of  Napoleon,"  often 
called  "  The  Sitting  Napoleon,"  by  Vela.  One  under 
stands  at  once  why  he  should  be  captivated  by  the 
Reading  Girl,  such  a  deep,  almost  unutterable  calm, 
and  unconscious  purity  and  intellectual  earnestness 
breathe  from  the  face  ;  but  one  is  unable  to  account 
for  his  admiration  of  the  Napoleon. 

JOHN  OWEN  AND   LONGFELLOW. 

John  Owen  published  Longfellow's  first  volume  of 
poems,  "Voices  of  the  Night,"  and  was  for  many 
years  his  publisher  in  Cambridge.  lie  occupies  a 
quaint  suite  of  rooms  on  the  third  floor  of  a  Cam 
bridge  house.  The  rooms  are  pervaded  by  an  anti 
quarian  aura,  and  are  stuffed  and  crowded  with 
bric-a-brac  and  books.  One  of  the  curiosities  of  the 
rooms  is  the  manner  in  which  the  owner  admits 
visitors.  He  has  a  speaking-tube,  a  bell,  and  a  wire 
connecting  his  room  with  the  street-door  below. 
When  the  bell  is  rung  the  visitor  receives  the  query, 
"  Who  is  it  ?  "  through  the  tube,  and,  if  invited  to 
ascend,  finds  the  door-catch  pulled  back  by  the  wire  ; 
and,  thus  invisibly  ushered  in,  he  mounts  the  stairs. 
Mr.  Longfellow  frequently  visited  his  friend  in  these 
rooms.  They  called  each  other  by  their  initials,  —  "  My 
dear  J.  O.,"  and  "  My  dear  H.  W.  L."  Pleased  indeed 
was  the  amiable  solitaire,  when,  in  familiar  tones,  he 
heard  the  magic  letters  "  H.  W.  L."  gently  spoken 
through  the  tube.  Mr.  Owen  and  Mr.  Longfellow 
were  accustomed  to  sip  a  little  spirits  or  wine  together 


LITERARY  EXECUTOR   OF  SUMNER.  169 

of  an  evening  while  they  chatted ;  Mr.  Longfellow 
sometimes  not  retiring  till  eleven  o'clock  on  these  occa 
sions,  although  his  usual  hour  was  ten.  Mr.  Long 
fellow,  being  one  of  the  literary  executors  of  Charles 
Sumner,  superintended  the  publication  of  his  complete 
works  ;  the  bulk  of  the  editorial  work  being  performed 
with  admirable  thoroughness  by  Mr.  George  Nichols, 
who  had  previously  assisted  Little,  Brown,  &  Co.  to 
bring  out  an  edition  of  the  works  of  Edmund  Burke. 
Mr.  Owen  had  suggested  to  Sumner  the  publishing  of 
his  works,  and  he  says  Sumner  waited  several  years 
for  him  to  get  ready  to  do  the  editing.  In  the  end 
he  was  employed  to  oversee  the  phraseology,  and  sug 
gest  rhetorical  emendations.  During  the  progress  of 
the  work  he  had  one  of  the  longest  and  most  curious 
hunts  after  a  quotation  that  was  ever  heard  of.  It  is 
worth  telling,  to  show  the  exhaustive  accuracy  with 
which  the  works  of  Sumner  (Boston  :  Lee  &  Shepard) 
have  been  edited.  The  writer  got  the  anecdote  from 
Mr.  Owen.  Sumner,  in  his  "  Prophetic  Voices,"  had 
quoted  from  Daniel  Webster  these  lines  :  — 

"  In  other  lands  another  Britain  see, 
And  as  thou  art,  America  shall  be." 

The  question  was,  who  wrote  them?  Where  did 
Webster  get  them  ?  Webster  quoted  from  any  thing 
and  every  thing,  and  was  just  as  likely  to  embellish  a 
speech  with  a  sentence  from  a  spelling-book  as  from 
any  other  source.  The  quotation  could  not  be  found. 
It  was  published  in  all  the  literary  journals :  it  was 
given  out  at  dinner-parties.  Holmes  and  Emerson,  and 
about  every  other  author  of  note,  were  enlisted  in  behalf 
of  the  quotation.  No  one  could  find  it.  One  day  Mr. 


170  IIENRY    WADSWORTI1  LONGFELLOW. 

Owen,  in  verifying  another  reference,  read  through  by 
accident  the  preface  to  an  old  edition  of  Griswold's 
"  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America."  At  the  very  close 
what  should  he  see  but  the  long-sought  lines!  But 
alas !  the  author's  name  was  not  given.  The  next  thing 
to  do  was  to  hunt  up  the  library  of  the  deceased  Gris- 
wold  (u  sea-green  "  Rev.  Griswold,  the  defamer  of  poor 
Poe).  The  library  was  discovered  in  Philadelphia, 
where  Griswold  lived  when  he  died.  But  in  the  mean 
time  Mr.  Owen  had  written  to  the  librarian  of  the 
Lenox  Library  in  New  York.  This  gentleman  solved 
the  riddle  :  the  lines  had  never  been  published  in  a  book, 
so  far  as  could  be  determined,  but  had  been  written  with 
a  diamond  on  a  window-pane  in  London  by  Gulian  C. 
Verplanck  of  New  York.  Some  one  had  sent  them  to  a 
newspaper,  and  it  was  probably  in  a  newspaper  that 
Webster  saw  them.  But  the  indefatigable  editors  of 
S limner's  works  were  still  unsatisfied.  Perhaps  Ver 
planck  had  at  some  time  written  them  in  a  book :  if  so, 
perhaps  the  newspaper  lines  were  not  absolutely  as  he 
had  written  them.  Webster  had  made  one  mistake, 
substituting  "  lands  "  for  "  worlds  ;  "  there  might  be 
others.  So  the  search  through  Griswold's  library  was 
renewed.  But  the  lines  have  never  as  yet  been  found 
in  book  form. 

READING   BY  TWILIGHT. 

Longfellow  told  Mr.  George  Nichols  of  Cambridge 
that  in  1845  his  eyes  were  so  much  injured  by  his  habit 
of  reading  too  late  into  the  twilight,  that,  when  he  was 
applied  to  by  a  Philadelphia  firm  to  edit  "  The  Poets 
and  Poetry  of  Europe,"  he  had  to  get  the  assistance  of 
Professor  Felton,  at  whose  house  he  was  a  constant 


THE  FIVE  OF  CLUBS.  171 

caller.     He  also  drew  on  his  college  lectures  for  the 
introductions  to  the  selections  in  the  book. 

THE  FIVE  OF  CLUBS. 

In  the  "  Memoir  and  Letters  of  Charles  Sumner,"  by 
Edward  L.  Pierce  (2  vols.,  Boston :  1877.  Roberts 
Brothers),  is  found  the  following  (vol.  i.,  p.  161)  :  — 

"  In  the  early  part  of  the  year  1837,  an  intimate  friend 
ship  was  formed  between  Cornelius  C.  Felton,  Henry 
W.  Longfellow,  George  S.  Hillard,  Henry  R.  Cleve 
land,  and  Charles  Sumner :  they  called  themselves  the 
6  Five  of  Clubs.'  They  were  near  to  each  other  in  age  ; 
Longfellow  being  thirty,  Felton  twenty-nine,  Hillard 
and  Cleveland  twenty-eight,  and  Sumner  twenty-six. 
Of  the  five  Hillard  only  was  married.  All  achieved  an 
honorable  place  in  literature.  Cleveland  was  a  teacher 
by  profession,  refined  and  delicate  in  character,  but 
poor  in  health.  He  died  at  the  age  of  thirty-four. 
The  Five  came  together  almost  weekly,  generally  on 
Saturday  afternoons.  They  met  simply  as  friends  with 
common  tastes,  and  the  fullest  sympathy  with  each 
other,  talking  of  society,  the  week's  experiences,  new 
books,  their  individual  studies,  plans,  and  hopes,  and 
of  Europe,  —  which  Longfellow  and  Cleveland  had 
seen,  and  which  the  others  longed  to  see.  They  loved 
good  cheer,  but  observed  moderation  in  their  festivi 
ties.  A  table  simply  spread  became  a  symposium  when 
Helton,  with  his  joyov:s  nature,  took  his  seat  among 
^is  friends ;  and  the  other  four  were  not  less  genial  and 
jiep.Tty.  There  was  hardly  a  field  of  literature  which 
CAQ  or  the  other  had  not  traversed,  and  they  took  a 
constant  interest  in  each  other's  studies.  Each  sought 
the  criticism  of  the  rest  upon  his  own  book,  essay,  or 


172  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

poem,  before  it  was  given  to  the  public.  Their  mutual 
confidence  seemed  to  know  no  limitation  of  distrust, 
or  fear  of  possible  alienation ;  and  they  revealed,  as 
friends  do  not  often  reveal,  their  inner  life  to  each 
other.  Rarely  in  history  has  there  been  a  fellowship  so 
beautiful  as  that  of  these  gifted  young  men." 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE'S  REMINISCENCES. 

In  The  Critic  for  April  8,  1882,  Mrs.  Julia  Ward 
Howe  says,  Mr.  Longfellow  "once  told  me  that  he  dis 
liked  the  study  of  history ;  .  .  .  I  will  mention  in  this 
connection  that  he  told  me  one  day  of  a  very  dispara 
ging  criticism  of  his  works  which  had  just  appeared,  and 
of  which  Miss  Margaret  Fuller  was  the  author.  I  asked 
him  what  she  had  said;  and  he  replied  that  he  had  not 
read  the  article,  and  that  he  usually  thought  it  best  not 
to  read  what  would  be  likely  to  cause  him  useless  irri 
tation." 

MANNER    OF    RECEIVING   VISITORS. 

Madam  A.  Macchetta  thus  describes  the  poet's  man 
ner  of  receiving  visitors :  "  In  a  general  conversation 
an  unerring  instinct  guides  his  questions  and  replies. 
He  is  so  quick  a  reader  of  character,  that  not  one  word 
fell  on  an  unappreciative  person.  Betrayed  into  some 
warmth  of  feeling  at  a  casual  remark,  he  commenced 
what  would  have  been  a  glowing  description  of  some 
thing  that  he  had  seen ;  but,  glancing  a  second  time  at 
his  visitor,  he  quietly  dropped  the  thread  of  his  remark. 
He  knows  instantaneously,  by  the  questions  put  to  him, 
the  mental  calibre  of  each  and  every  interlocutor.  Of 
course,  as  many  epistolary  tramps  visit  him  out  of  curi 
osity,  as  well  as  well-intentioned  litterateurs  who  wor 
ship  at  the  shrine  of  poetic  art,  it  was  Really  delicious  to 


KINDNESS   TO   STBANGERS.  173 

see  him  quietly  put  clown  the  former  without  their  ever 
being  aware  of  it,  and  to  remark  with  what  astuteness 
he  divined  the  tastes  of  the  latter.  Evidently  the  old 
adage  of  casting  pearls  before  swine  is  not  unknown 
to  him.  A  bright  little  lad  was  shown  into  the  room. 
He  was  very  young,  perhaps  seven  years  of  age,  and 
held  in  his  hand  a  newly  bound  volume.  His  manner 
suggested  foreign  breeding,  as  he  bowed  with  marion 
ette  gravity  to  every  one  in  the  room,  and  then  stood 
still  as  if  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed.  Longfellow  looked 
up  smilingly,  and  his  great  love  of  children  was  evi 
dent  in  the  mildness  of  his  speech. 

"  '  Good-morning,  my  lad,'  said  he  amiably.  '  Did  you 
wish  to  see  me  ? ' 

"The  boy  said  hesitatingly,  'Professor  Longfellow?' 

"'Yes,'  responded  the  poet  kindly.  'What  is  it? 
Come  here.' 

'"This  is  my  birthday,'  he  said  excitedly,  'and  I 
have  come  to  ask  you  to  put  your  autograph  in  my  new 
album.  Mother  just  gave  it  to  me,  and  she  thought  I 
might  ask  you.' 

"  '  What  is  your  name  ? '  asked  the  poet. 

"  The  boy  looked  up  shyly.  '  I  am  named  for  you,' 
he  said  simply;  'and  my  father  works  in  the  college.'" 

KINDNESS   TO   STRANGEKS. 

A  correspondent  of  The  Chicago  Times  writes  of  a 
visit  to  the  poet  Longfellow  as  follows :  — 

"  In  contrast  with  this  day  my  thoughts  revert  to  a 
bright  day  in  last  September,  when,  with  a  friend,  I 
passed  the  morning  and  the  greater  part  of  the  after 
noon  in  Longfellow's  home  with  the  poet  and  his  daugh 
ters,  Misses  Alice  and  Annie  Longfellow.  Over  the 


174        HENRY  wADswonrn  LONGFELLOW. 

door  of  the  old-fashioned  and  very  interesting  house 
hung  the  American  flag,  half  furled,  aiid  draped  in 
mourning  for  President  Garlield,  who  had  died  but  two 
days  before.  I  lifted  the  brass  knocker  with  nervous 
ness,  thinking  of  the  many  distinguished  people  who 
had  sought  admittance  there ;  and  at  once  it  was  an 
swered  by  a  neat  maid-servant,  who  ushered  us  into  the 
quaint  old  drawing-room,  the  walls  of  which  were  hung 
with  light-colored  paper  with  vines  of  roses  trailing  over 
it,  a  style  of  many  years  ago.  We  had  no  time  for 
further  observation ;  for  almost  immediately  Mr.  Long 
fellow  came  in,  greeting  us  most  kindly,  saying,  '  Come 
into  my  room,  where  we  shall  be  more  at  ease :  I  cannot 
make  strangers  of  you  ! '  How  gladly  we  followed  him, 
but  without  a  word  of  reply ;  for,  to  acknowledge  the 
truth,  my  heart  at  least  was  beating  too  painfully  with 
the  realization  that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  the  poet 
beloved  from  my  childhood.  In  person  he  was  smaller 
than  I  had  fancied  him,  —  only  of  medium  height, — 
but  his  face,  made  familiar  by  his  portraits,  seemed  that 
of  an  old  friend.  His  silvery  hair  was  carelessly  thrown 
back  from  his  forehead,  the  full  beard  and  mustache 
partially  concealed  the  pleasant  mouth,  but  his  mild 
blue  eyes  expressed  the  kindliness  of  his  heart  and  his 
quick  reading  of  the  hearts  of  others.  He  wore  a  Prince 
Albert  coat  of  very  dark  brown  cloth,  with  trousers  of 
a  much  lighter  shade,  having  an  invisible  plaid  running 
through  them.  A  dark-blue  necktie  and  spotless  linen 
completed  his  costume.  In  his  study  we  sat  some  hours, 
listening  to  his  low,  musical  voice  as  he  talked  on  many 
interesting  topics ;  read  aloud  to  us  from  his  own  beau 
tiful  '  Evangeline,'  or  selections  from  other  poets.  Pie 
read  aloud  the  sonnets  to  the  Nile  by  Keats,  Shelley., 


AT  HIS  HOME.  175 

and  Leigh  Hunt,  comparing  them,  telling  us  how  cor 
rect  they  were  and  how  incorrect  were  those  of  Shak- 
speare.  To  Leigh  Hunt's  sonnets  he  gave  the  preference, 
and  seemed  to  enjoy  all  as  if  it  were  his  first  reading  of 
them.  So  in  every  thing  he  read  he  found  some  new 
beauty,  and  spoke  of  it  with  almost  boyish  pleasure. 
We  listened  with  delight  to  all :  then  he  said,  '  You  will 
tire  of  me  and  my  nonsense.  Come  and  meet  my 
daughters.  I  shall  not  let  you  go :  you  must  drink  a 
cup  of  tea  with  us.'  Then  we  were  led  into  the  large, 
cheerful  dining-room,  where  was  spread  a  delicious 
luncheon.  Miss  Alice  presided ;  Miss  Annie  being  en 
gaged  in  superintending  the  meal  laid  on  a  tiny  table 
out  on  the  broad  porch,  where  two  little  children  were 
being  made  happy.  Mr.  Longfellow  was  called,  and 
we  followed,  to  look  upon  the  pretty  scene ;  and  when 
the  children  saw  him  they  dropped  their  '  goodies,'  and 
ran  to  climb  up  and  receive  his  kiss  and  beg  him  to 
play  with  them.  Then  we  gathered  around  the  table, 
spread  with  delicate  china,  the  copper  kettle  singing 
merrily;  and  Mr.  Longfellow  made  the  tea  with  his  own 
hands,  and  poured  it  from  the  antique  silver  teapot  for 
our  enjoyment.  While  many  dishes  were  offered  us, 
the  poet  took  simply  his  tea  and  Graham  biscuit :  there 
was  no  ostentatious  ceremony,  but  all  was  served  with 
quiet  ease,  as  if  only  the  family  circle  were  gathered 
there.  After  lunch  Mr.  Longfellow  led  us  through  the 
house,  pointing  out  his  favorite  pictures  and  treasures, 
relating  interesting  incidents  as  we  passed  from  room 
to  room.  He  said  he  first  took  up  his  residence  in  the 
historical  house  as  a  bachelor,  with  several  bachelor 
friends,  each  renting  rooms  therein  ;  then  he  took  half 
the  house,  a  friend  the  other  half,  and  set  up  house- 


176  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

keeping ;  finally  his  means  enabled  him  to  purchase  the 
house  and  grounds,  and  there  had  been  his  home  ever 
since.  Nothing  had  been  changed  in  the  arrangements 
of  the  house  since  the  days  when  it  had  served  as  the 
headquarters  of  Gen.  Washington.  Much  of  the  paint 
and  paper  looked  as  though  it,  too,  had  stood  the  wear 
and  tear  of  time  since  those  old  days.  All  was  scrupu 
lously  clean,  but  so  different  from  the  house  decoration 
of  to-day.  Then  we  nestled  upon  the  broad  south  porch, 
while  the  poet  smoked  a  cigarette  and  chatted  the  while 
of  many  books  and  authors,  and  I  was  closely  questioned 
about  our  little  city  of  Pullman,  in  which  he  expressed 
great  interest,  saying  that  it  seemed  impossible  that  such 
a  work  could  be  done  in  so  short  a  time.  He  said  that 
he  more  than  ever  wanted  to  visit  the  great  West, 
where  we  must  have  won  the  assistance  of  Eastern  genii 
in  our  magical  growth.  When  the  hour  arrived  for  our 
departure,  the  venerable  poet  walked  with  us  to  the 
gate ;  and,  under  the  beautiful  lilac  hedge  which  sur 
rounds  the  place,  we  said  good-by,  and  promised  to 
make  another  visit  soon.  A  few  days  later,  on  opening 
the  door  of  our  little  hotel  parlor,  we  beheld  the  friend, 
who  had  come  to  return  our  visit.  He  apologized  for 
not  sending  a  card,  and  we  pardoned  him  on  condition 
that  he  would  write  his  name  in  our  birthday  books. 
To  this  he  cheerfully  assented,  and  now  we  value  those 
autographs  beyond  price." 

A  neighbor  of  Mr.  Longfellow  writes  to  The  New 
York  Independent  as  follows  :  — 

"  The  poet  was  never  more  attractive  than  in  these 
unexpected  interviews  with  absolute  strangers.  He 
received  them  with  gentle  courtesy,  glided  readily  into 
Common  topics,  but  carefully  warded  off  all  compli- 


LONGFELLOW'S    HOME. 

MALL  ON   THE   WEST   SIDE   OF   THE   CRAIGIE   HOUSE.   CAMBRIDGE. 


12 


178  HENRY  WADSWOETII  LONGFELLOW. 

mentary  references  to  his  works.  This  was  his  invaria 
ble  custom  in  general  conversation.  I  was  present 
when  a  distinguished  party  from  Canada  was  intro 
duced,  and  remember,  when  a  charming  lady  of  the 
party  gracefully  repeated  a  message  of  high  compli 
ment  from  the  Princess  Louise,  how  courteously  he 
received  it,  and  how  instantly  he  turned  the  conversa 
tion  in  another  direction.  I  remember,  at  another  of 
these  introductions,  a  stranger  lady  distrustfully  asked 
Mr.  Longfellow  for  his  autograph.  He  assured  her  by 
at  once  assenting,  while  he  remarked,  4I  know  some 
persons  object  to  giving  their  autographs ;  but  if  so 
little  a  thing  will  give  pleasure,  how  can  one  refuse  ? ' 

"  Mr.  Longfellow  often  amused  his  friends  with  hu 
morous  accounts  of  some  of  these  visits.  I  recall  his 
account  of  one  which  seemed  to  delight  him  hugely. 
An  English  gentleman  thus  abruptly  introduced  him 
self  without  letters:  cls  this  Mr.  Longfellow?  Well, 
sir,  as  you  have  no  ruins  in  your  country,  I  thought,' 
growing  embarrassed,  'I  thought  I  would  call  and  see 
you,' 

"I  suspect  that  even  very  distinguished  visitors  some 
times  bored  him.  I  recollect  his  telling  me  that  the 
Duke  of  Argyll,  a  persistent  ornithologist,  troubled 
him  considerably  by  asking  him  names  of  birds  whose 
notes  they  heard  while  sitting  on  his  veranda.  Mr. 
Longfellow  was  no  naturalist:  he  did  not  know  our 
birds  specifically,  and  flowers  are  sometimes  found 
blooming  at  extraordinary  seasons  in  his  poetry.  He 
remarked  to  me  once  upon  the  flaming  splendor  of  the 
Cydonia  Japonica  (red-flowering  quince),  and  asked 
the  name  of  that  familiar  shrub,  saying,  CI  know 
nothing  about  flowers.'  Yet  he  saw  in  Nature  what 
no  mere  naturalist  could  ever  hope  to  see." 


SOME   OF  HIS    VISITORS.  179 

Another  says,  "  I  was  in  his  library  last  fall  with  a 
young  girl  from  California.  She  had  been  the  wide 
world  over,  but  stood  shy  and  silent  in  his  presence, 
moved  to  tears  by  his  kindly  welcome.  It  was  touch 
ing  to  see  the  poet's  appreciation  of  this,  and  his  quick 
glance  over  his  table,  that  he  might  find  something  to 
interest  her  and  make  her  forget  her  embarrassment. 
Taking  up  a  little  box  covered  with  glass,  he  put  it 
into  her  hand,  and  said,  l  Thin  is  a  mournful  thing  to 
put  into  the  hands  of  a  beautiful,  bright  girl ;  but 
think  of  it !  six  hundred  years  ago  the  bit  of  wood  in 
that  box  touched  Dante's  bones.'  And  he  related  how 
this  piece  of  Dante's  coffin  had  come  into  his  posses 
sion.  He  led  her  to  his  piano,  and  asked  her  to  play 
for  him.  He  told  her  anecdotes  o''  Coleridge  and 
Moore,  as  he  showed  her  their  inkstands.  He  touched 
upon  the  fascinating  life  of  Cellini  as  he  pointed  out  a 
bit  of  his  marvellous  work,  and  concisely  showed  the 
difference  between  the  Italian  and  French  schools  of 
art,  illustrated  by  Cellini's  Tintoretto  and  David.  Soon 
his  young  visitor  was  chatting  with  him  as  freely  as  if 
she  had  not  entered  his  door  with  a  timidity  amount 
ing  almost  to  fear.  After  that,  he  turned  to  us.  I 
hope  he  understood  how  this  act  had  been  silently 
appreciated  by  us ;  yet  I  think  he  was  all-unconscious 
of  the  picture  he  created,  —  a  picture  never  to  be  for 
gotten  by  those  of  us  who  witnessed  it." 

An  anonymous  newspaper  contributor  says  :  — 
"Neilson,  the  beautiful  English  actress,  Miss  Gene- 
vieve  Ward,  Blanche  Roosevelt,  Miss  Sarah  Jewett,  — 
whose  poems  he  thoroughly  appreciated,  and  whom  he 
encouraged  with  his  advice  both  as  an  actress  and  a 
poet,  —  and  many  others,  have  a  charming  recollection 


180  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

of  their  reception  at  the  Craigie  House.  When  Mile. 
Rhea  was  here  during  the  last  winter  of  his  life,  she 
expressed  an  earnest  desire  to  visit  Cambridge  and  be 
introduced  to  the  great  poet.  Mr.  Longfellow  was 
unwell  at  the  time,  and  there  was  some  doubt  as  to 
whether  he  would  be  able  to  see  her.  She  was  driven 
out  by  Capt.  Nathan  Appleton,  however ;  and  to  her 
great  joy  the  poet  was  able  to  receive  her  in  his  custom 
ary  gracious  manner.  The  short  call  was  highly  enjoyed 
both  by  the  poet  and  the  actress.  Mile.  Rhea  recited 
to  the  author  in  English  the  little  poem,  '  The  Maiden 
and  the  Weathercock,'  then  recently  written,  a  graceful 
compliment,  which  gave  great  pleasure  to  the  venerable 
poet. 

"At  Nahant  he  was  constantly  receiving  visitors, 
some  of  whom  came  from  distant  countries  across  the 
ocean.  Often  they  would  drive  with  him  at  the  early 
hour  of  three,  and  return  to  Boston  on  the  afternoon 
boat. 

VISITS  FROM  YOUNG  LADIES. 

"Two  young  ladies  from  Iowa,  visiting  in  Boston, 
wrote  a  note  to  him,  telling  how  much  they  loved  his 
poems,  and  what  a  wish  they  had  to  see  him.  In  the 
next  mail  came  a  most  cordial  reply,  appointing  a  time 
when  he  would  be  at  liberty  to  meet  them  ;  and  since 
then  they  have  loved  the  man  even  more  than  his  poetry. 
This  is  but  one  instance  of  his  universal  kindness. 
His  neighbors  and  friends  in  his  own  city  will  feel  his 
loss  far  more  than  his  world- wide  circle  of  admirers. 
Said  a  gentleman  who  had  known  him  long,  'I  shall 
miss  his  familiar  form,  which  I  used  to  see  so  often  on 
our  street ;  I  shall  miss  the  cheery  voice  and  gracious 
wave  of  the  hand  with  which  he  always  greeted  me. 


ORIGIN   OF  SOME  POEMS.  181 

I  don't  believe  lie  had  an  enemy  in  the  world,  and  I  am 
sure  that  every  person  who  ever  knew  him  feels  that  he 
has  lost  a  friend.' ' 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  SOME  OF  HIS  POEMS. 

The  late  James  T.  Fields,  writing  about  Longfellow, 
said :  — 

"  You  must  look  to  Shakspeare  for  a  larger  stock  of 
the  currency  of  thought  than  Longfellow's  ;  for  he  is 
quoted  in  Westminster  Palace,  in  the  British  Parlia 
ment,  and  in  all  the  pulpits  of  England.  It  is  because 
he  humanizes  whatever  he  touches,  that  his  lyre  has 
nothing  alien  to  any  soil.  I  have  heard  him  quoted  by 
an  Armenian  monk  with  a  cowl,  and  sung  at  camp- 
meetings  on  the  hills  of  New  Hampshire. 

"  As  I  happen  to  know  of  the  birth  of  many  of  Long 
fellow's  poems,  let  me  divulge  to  you  a  few  of  their 
secrets.  The  c  Psalm  of  Life  '  came  into  existence  on  a 
bright  summer  morning  in  July,  1838,  in  Cambridge,  as 
the  poet  sat  between  two  windows  at  a  small  table  in 
the  corner  of  his  chamber.  It  was  a  verse  from  his 
inmost  heart,  and  he  kept  it  unpublished  for  a  long 
time.  It  expressed  his  own  feelings  at  that  time,  when 
recovering  from  a  deep  affliction,  and  he  had  it  in  his 
own  heart  for  many  months.  The  poem  of  'The  Reaper 
and  the  Flowers '  came  without  effort,  crystallized  into 
his  mind.  '  The  Light  of  the  Stars '  was  composed  on  a 
serene  and  beautiful  summer  evening,  exactly  suggestive 
of  the  poem.  4  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus '  was  written 
the  night  after  a  violent  storm  had  occurred;  and,  as 
the  poet  sat  smoking  his  pipe,  the  Hesperus  came  sailing 
into  his  mind.  He  went  to  bed,  but  could  not  sleep, 
and  wrote  the  celebrated  verses.  It  hardly  caused  him 


182  HENRY  WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

an  effort,  but  flowed  on  without  let  or  hindrance.  On 
a  summer  afternoon  in  1840,  as  he  was  riding  on  the 
beach,  '  The  Skeleton  in  Armor '  rose  as  out  of  the  deep 
before  him,  and  would  not  be  laid. 

"  One  of  the  best  known  of  all  of  Longfellow's  shorter 
poems  is  4  Excelsior.'  That  one  word  happened  to  catch 
his  eye  one  autumn  eve  in  1841  on  a  torn  piece  of  news 
paper  ;  and  straightway  his  imagination  took  fire  at  it. 
Taking  up  a  piece  of  paper,  which  happened  to  be  the 
back  of  a  letter  received  that  day  from  Charles  Sumner, 
he  crowded  it  with  verses.  As  first  written  down, 
4  Excelsior  '  differs  from  the  perfected  and  published 
version ;  but  it  shows  a  rush  and  glow  worthy  of  its 
author." 

LONGFELLOW  ABROAD. 

Cardinal  Wiseman,  in  an  enthusiastic  eulogy  of  Mr. 
Longfellow^,  says,  "  He  was  a  true  philosopher  who  said, 
4  Let  me  make  the  songs  of  a  nation,  and  I  care  not  who 
makes  its  laws.'  There  is  one  writer  who  approaches 
nearer  than  any  other  to  this  standard,  and  he  has  al 
ready  gained  such  a  hold  on  our  hearts  that  it  is  almost 
unnecessary  for  me  to  mention  his  name.  Our  hemi 
sphere  cannot  claim  the  honor  of  having  brought  him 
forth ;  but  still  he  belongs  to  us,  for  his  works  have 
become  as  household  words  wherever  the  English  lan 
guage  is  spoken.  And  whether  we  are  charmed  by 
his  imagery,  or  soothed  by  his  melodious  versification, 
or  elevated  by  the  high  moral  teachings  of  his  pure 
muse,  or  follow  with  sympathizing  hearts  the  wanderings 
of  Evangeline,  I  am  sure  that  all  who  hear  my  voice 
will  join  me  in  the  tribute  I  desire  to  pay  to  the  genius 
of  Longfellow." 


Q^UEEN    VICTORIA   AND  DOM  PEDRO.  183 

At  a  dinner  given  in  London  in  1877,  to  Chief 
Justice  Shea  of  the  Marine  Court,  Sir  (then  Mr.) 
Theodore  Martin,  the  biographer  of  Prince  Albert,  re 
lated  to  the  judge  that  the  queen  once  told  him,  when 
he  called  at  Windsor  Castle,  "  I  wished  for  you  this 
morning,  for  you  would  have  seen  something  that 
would  have  delighted  you  as  a  man  of  letters.  The 
American  poet  Longfellow' has  been  here.  I  noticed  an 
unusual  interest  among  the  attendants  and  servants.  I 
could  scarcely  credit  that  they  so  generally  understood 
who  he  was.  When  he  took  leave,  they  concealed 
themselves  in  places  from  which  they  could  get  a  good 
look  at  him  as  he  passed.  I  have  since  inquired  among 
them,  ana  am  surprised  and  pleased  to  find  that  many 
of  his  p^ems  are  familiar  to  them.  No  other  distin 
guished  person  has  come  here  that  has  excited  so  pecu 
liar  an  interest.  Such  poets  wear  a  crown  that  is 
imperisHble." 

DOM  PEDRO  II.  OF  BRAZIL. 

Amnng  the  many  opinions  of  the  dead  poet  recorded 
in  eve"y  tongue,  there  may  be  mentioned  those  of  Dom 
Pedro  II.  of  Brazil.  In  1855  Rev.  J.  C.  Fletcher  took  a 
number  of  specimens  of  American  literature,  art,  and 
manufactures  to  the  capital  of  Brazil,  where  he  was 
permitted  to  exhibit  them  in  the  National  Museum. 
They  were  first  visited  by  Dom  Pedro,  who,  after  an  ex 
amination  of  the  various  works,  made  remarks  on  Irving, 
Cooper,  and  Prescott,  showing  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  each.  He  then,  with  great  earnestness  of  manner, 
said,  "  M.  Fletcher,  avez-vous  les  poemes  de  M.  Long 
fellow?  "  Mr.  Fletcher  replied  in  the  negative,  where 
upon  his  Majesty  said,  "  I  am  exceedingly  sorry ;  for  J 


184  HENRY   WADSWORTII  LONGFELLOW. 

have  sought  in  every  bookstore  in  Rio  de  Janeiro  for 
Longfellow,  and  I  cannot  find  it.  I  have  a  number  of 
beautiful  morceaux  from  him,  but  I  wish  the  whole 
work.  I  admire  him  so  much."  Afterward,  at  the 
Palace  of  St.  Christopher,  when  Mr.  Fletcher  took 
leave  of  the  emperor,  tne  latter  said  to  him,  "  When 
you  return  to  your  country,  have  the  kindness  to  say  to 
Mr.  Longfellow  how  much  pleasure  he  has  given  me, 
and  be  pleased  to  tell  him  combien  je  Vestime,  combien 
je  Vaime" 

ONE  OF  THE  POET'S  LAST  ACTS 

was  to  sign  a  petition  to  the  Legislature  to  remove  the 
disability  of  atheists  in  the  matter  of  testimony  in 
courts. 

THE    SOUTH  OF  FRANCE. 

Mr.  Longfellow  was  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  the 
climate  and  scenery  of  the  South  of  France,  and  often 
expressed  a  desire  to  revisit  the  localities  with  Avliicli 
he  was  so  charmed.  He  talked  quite  seriously  of  ac 
companying  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dana  in  their  proposed  trip 
to  Europe  in  the  spring  of  1882,  but  it  is  improbable 
that  his  health  would  have  permitted  him  to  leave  home 
for  such  an  extended  journey. 

THE    POET   AND   THE    COMPOSERS. 

Mr.  D.  E.  Hervey  of  New  York  has  published  in 
The  Tribune  of  that  city  the  following  classified  list  of 
poems  of  Mr.  Longfellow  which  have  been  set  to  music. 
He  remarks  that  it  is  by  no  means  a  complete  list, 
but  embraces  such  cases  only  as  have  fallen  under  his 
notice. 

"  Operas. — 4  The    Masque    of  Pandora,'  libretto   ar- 


THE  POET  AND   THE  COMPOSERS.  185 

ranged  by  Bolton  Rowe,  music  by  Alfred  Cellier; 
4  Victorian,  the  Spanish  Student,'  libretto  by  Julian 
Edwards,  music  by  J.  Reynolds  Anderson. 

"  Cantatas.  — '  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,'  com 
posed  by  T.  Anderton ;  '  The  Consecration  of  the  Ban 
ner,'  by  J.  F.  H.  Read;  'The  Building  of  the  Ship,' 
by  J.  F.  Barnett,  and  another  by  Henry  Lahee ;  '  The 
Golden  Legend,'  by  Dudley  Buck,  and  another  by  the 
Rev.  H.  E.  Hodson  ;  'The  Bells  of  Strasburg  Cathedral ' 
(from  '  The  Golden  Legend '),  by  Franz  Liszt ;  '  The 
Tale  of  a  Viking'  ('The  Skeleton  in  Armor'),  by 
George  E.  Whiting. 

"  Two,  Three,  and  Four  Part  Songs.  — '  Stars  of  the 
Summer  Night,'  by  Henry  Smart,  Dr.  E.  G.  Monk,  J. 
L.  Hatton  ;  '  Good-Night.  Beloved,'  by  Giro  Pinsuti, 
J.  L.  Hatton,  Dr.  E.  G.  Monk ;  '  Beware  '  ('  I  know  a 
Maiden  '),  by  J.  L.  Hatton,  J.  B.  Boucher,  H.  De  Burgh, 
Mrs.  Mounsey  Bartholomew,  M.  W.  Balfe,  H.  M.  Dow  ; 
'  The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers,'  by  J.  B.  Boucher,  A.  R. 
Gaul ;  '  Song  of  the  Silent  Land,'  by  A.  R.  Gaul,  A.  H. 
D.  Prendergast ;  '  The  Curfew,'  by  T.  Anderton,  P.  H. 
Dremer,  W.  Macfaren,  Henry  Smart ;  '  The  Day  is 
Done,'  by  A.  R.  Gaul ;  '  The  Hemlock  Tree,'  by  J.  L. 
Hatton  ;  '  The  Village  Blacksmith,'  by  J.  L.  Hatton  ; 
'  King  Witlafs  Drinking-Horn,'  by  J.  L.  Hatton  ;  '  The 
Arrow  and  the  Song,'  by  Walter  Hay  ;  '  The  Wreck  of 
the  Hesperus,'  by  Dr.  H.  Hiles ;  '  A  Voice  came  over 
the  Sea  '  ('  Daybreak '),  by  F.  Quinn,  J.  C.  D.  Parker  ; 
'A  Psalm  of  Life,'  by  Henry  Smart,  Dr.  Mainzer  ;  '  The 
Rainy  Day,'  by  A.  S.  Sullivan,  J.  Blockley ;  '  Woods 
in  Winter,'  by  W.  W.  Pearson  ;  '  Up  and  Doing,'  by 
Dr.  Mainzer ;  '  Heart  within  and  God  o'erhead,'  by 
Rossini ;  '  The  Nun  of  Nidaros,'  arid  '  King  OlafV 


186  HENRY   WADSWORTH  "LONGFELLOW. 

Christmas,'  from  the  '  Saga  of  King  Olaf,'  by  Dudley 
Buck;  'Brooklet,'  by  F.  Booth;  'Excelsior,'  by  M.  W. 
Balfe;  'Hymn  to  the  Night,'  by  S.  Glover;  'Sea  hath 
its  Pearls,'  by  Giro  Pinsuti.  As  for  songs  for  a  single 
voice,  they  are  very  numerous." 

The  following  are  found,  alphabetically  arranged,  in 
the  list  published  by  Oliver  Ditson  &  Co.  of  Boston :  — 

"  Songs  for  a  Single  Voice.  — '  Arrow  and  the  Song,' 
by  M.  W.  Balfe ;  '  The  Bells,'  by  J.  L.  Hatton ;  '  Be 
ware,'  by  B.  F.  Gilbert ;  '  Bridge,'  by  Lady  Carew,  A. 
Landon,  M.  Lindsay ;  '  Brook  and  the  Wave,'  by  J. 
L.  Molloy ;  '  Catawba  Wine,'  by  W.  R.  Dempster ; 
'Changed'  ('Aftermath'),  by  F.  Boott ;  'Children,' 
by  W.  R.  Dempster;  'The  Curfew,'  by  T.  Anderton  ; 
'Daybreak'  ('Wind  came  up  out  of  the  Sea'),  by  M. 
W.  Balfe;  'Day  is  Done,'  by  M.  W.  Balfe;  'Death  of 
Minnehaha,'  by  C.  C.  Converse  ;  '  The  Dead  '  by  Y.  Van 
Antwerp;  'Excelsior,'  by  J.  Blockley,  S.  Glover,  M. 
Lindsay ;  '  Footprints  on  the  Sands  of  Time,'  by  A.  W. 
Titus;  'Footsteps  of  Angels,'  by  W.  R.  Dempster; 
'Good-night,  Beloved,'  by  M.  W.  Balfe;  'Green  Trees 
whispered  Low,'  by  M.  W.  Balfe,  J.  Blockley ;  '  It  is 
not  always  May,'  by  C.  Gounod ;  '  Kyrie  Eleison,'  by  F. 
Boott ;  '  My  Lady  sleeps, '  by  G.  W.  Marston  ;  '  Night 
is  Calm  and  Cloudless,'  by  J.  L.  Hatton ;  '  Old  Clock 
on  the  Stairs,'  by  Dolores ;  '  Old  House  by  the  Lindens  ' 
('  Open  Window '),  by  J.  Blockley ;  '  Psalm  of  Life,'  by 
J.  Blockley,  G.  W.  Hewitt ;  '  Rainy  Day,"  by  W.  R. 
Dempster;  'Reaper  and  the  Flowers,'  by  M.  W.  Balfe, 
J.  R.  Thomas;  'Resignation,'  by  J.  E.  Gould;  'Sad 
Heart,  O  take  thy  Rest,'  by  V.  Gabriel  ;  'Sea  hath  its 
Pearls,'  by  F.  Lichner,  J.  C.  D.  Parker,  B.  Tours;  'She 
is  fooling  Thee,'  by  A.  H.  N.  B.;  'Stars  of  the  Summer 


LETTER   TO   GEORGE   W.    GUILDS.  187 

Night,'  by  F.  Boott,  C.  H.  Compton,  H.  Kleber,  B. 
Tours ;  '  Suspiria,'  by  Y.  Van  Antwerp  ;  '  Village  Black 
smith,'  by  D.  A.  Warden,  W.  H.  Weiss;  4 Voice  of 
Christ,'  by  D.  A.  Warden;  'Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,' 
by  J.  Blockley." 

In  the  catalogue  of  Ditson  &  Co.,  lists  of  other  au 
thors'  poems  that  have  been  set  to  music  are  given. 
Longfellow  heads  the  list  with  thirty-nine  poems,  next 
comes  Tennyson  with  twenty-six,  Byron  has  sixteen, 
Goethe  eight,  Holmes  six,  Whittier  four,  and  Words 
worth  one. 

It  may  be  mentioned  here  that  Professor  J.  K.  Paine 
of  Harvard  College  has,  since  the  death  of  Longfellow, 
expressed  an  intention  of  setting  some  of  his  poems  to 
music. 

A  Scotch  laborer  in  Cambridge  told  Mr.  John  Owen 
that  very  many  of  Longfellow's  poems  had  been  set  to 
music  in  Scotland. 

LETTER  TO  GEORGE  W.   CHILDS. 

CAMBRIDGE,  March  13,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  GUILDS, — You  do  not  know  yet  what  it 
is  to  be  seventy  years  old.  I  will  tell  you,  so  that  you  may 
not  be  taken  by  surprise  when  your  turn  comes. 

It  is  like  climbing  the  Alps.  You  reach  a  snow-crowned 
summit,  and  see  behind  you  the  deep  valley  stretching  miles 
and  miles  away,  and  before  you  other  summits  higher  and 
whiter,  which  you  may  have  strength  to  climb,  or  may  not. 
Then  you  sit  down  and  meditate,  and  wonder  which  it  will  be. 

That  is  the  whole  story,  amplify  it  as  you  may.  All  that 
one  can  say  is,  that  life  is  opportunity. 

With  seventy  good  wishes  to  the  dwellers  in  Walnut 
Street,  corner  of  Twenty-second, 

Yours  very  truly, 

HENRY  \\.    LONGFELLOW. 


188  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

HERMES  TRISMEGISTUS. 

Hermes  Trismegistus,  his  last  published  poem  but 
one,  appeared  in  The  Century  (Scribner's)  Magazine 
for  February,  1882.  It  has  all  of  its  author's  customary 
grace,  the  opening  and  closing  stanzas  reading  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

Still  through  Egypt's  desert  places 

Flows  the  lordly  Nile, 
From  its  banks  the  great  stone  faces 

Gaze  with  patient  smile  ; 
Still  the  Pyramids  imperious 
Pierce  the  cloudless  skies, 
And  the  Sphinx  stares  with  mysterious, 
Solemn,  stony  eyes. 

But  where  are  the  old  Egyptian 

Demi-gods  and  kings  V 
Nothing  left  but  an  inscription 

Graven  on  stones  and  rings. 
Where  are  Helius  and  Hephaestus, 

Gods  of  eldest  eld? 
Where  is  Hermes  Trismegistus, 

Who  their  secrets  held  ? 

Thine,  O  priest  of  Egypt,  lately 

Found  I  in  the  vast 
Weed-encumbered,  sombre,  stately 

Graveyard  of  the  Past ; 
And  a  presence  moved  before  me 

On  that  gloomy  shore, 
As  a  waft  of  wind,  that  o'er  me 

Breathed,  and  was  no  more. 

ONE  OF  LONGFELLOW'S  LAST  LETTERS. 

Mrs.  Marie  J.  Pitman  (alias  Margery  Deane),  of  New 
port,  sent  Mr.  Longfellow  some  spring  flowers,  among 
which  was  a  large  number  of  tulips.  In  a  letter  written 


REMINISCENCES  OF  A   JOURNALIST.  189 

just  two  weeks  before  his  death,  and  among  the  very 
last  which  he  wrote,  having  employed  an  amanuensis 
for  ten  days  previous  to  his  death,  he  says,  "I  have 
been  arranging  these  wonderful  flowers  under  the  lamp 
in  my  library.  I  can  only  think  of  the  floral  games 
of  Toulouse  in  the  times  of  the  Troubadours:  and, 
were  I  a  good  Troubadour,  I  would  write  you  a  letter 
in  verse  to-night ;  but  I  am  worn  and  weary,  so  that 
I  find  it  difficult  to  write  even  prose."  The  handwrit 
ing  showed  greatly  increased  feebleness.  In  this  same 
letter  he  says,  "  Thanks  is  a  little  word  ;  but  it  has 
much  meaning  when  it  has  a  heart  behind  it,  and  thus 
I  send  you  mine  for  these  Newport  flowers."  Mr. 
Longfellow  loved  Newport,  and  said  not  long  ago  to 
this  lady :  "  I  would  choose  Pelham  Street,  facing  the 
town  park  and  the  Old  Stone  Mill,  could  I  live  in  New 
port.  I  like  that  street  very  much,  but  in  the  Newport 
air  I  should  want  no  work  to  do.  That  is  the  climate 
to  be  idle  in."  Where  stands  the  new  Channing  Me 
morial  Church,  Mr.  Longfellow  thought  the  most  beau 
tiful  site  for  a  home  in  all  Newport. 

REMINISCENCES  OF  A  JOURNALIST. 

A  Boston  journalist  writes  to  The  Boston  Herald: 
"  In  the  years  1870-71  I  was  employed  by  Fields,  Os- 
good,  &  Co.,  and  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  in  their  old 
store  at  the  corner  of  Tremont  Street  and  Hamilton 
Place.  Mr.  Longfellow  was  a  frequent  visitor ;  and.  it 
was  many  a  time  my  privilege  to  walk  with  him  to 
Bowdoin  Square,  and  carry  a  parcel  too  heavy  for  his 
own  strength.  I  say  privilege,  for  such  indeed  it  was. 
On  these  occasions  he  invariably  kept  up  a  lively  con 
versation,  sometimes  serious,  and  sometimes  with  a 


190  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

quaint  strain  of  humor.  He  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor; 
and  I  recollect,  that,  as  we  were  once  walking  through 
Court  Street,  he  pointed  to  a  huge  Newfoundland  dog 
that  was  wagging  his  tail  vigorously,  and  said  to  me, 
c  Do  you  know  why  I  am  like  that  dog's  tail  ? '  and  then, 
without  waiting  for  me  to  answer,  he  replied,  '  Because 
I  am  something  of  a  wag.' 

"I  well  recollect  New  Year's  Day,  1871.  On  that- 
day  the  late  Mr.  James  T.  Fields  called  me  up  to  his 
little  room,  looking  out  on  Tremont  Street.  Mr.  Long 
fellow  was  there,  with  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  and,  I 
think,  Mr.  Whittier  and  Mr.  Emerson.  Mr.  Fields  said 
to  me,  c  After  working  for  others  for  a  great  many  years, 
I  am  now  going  to  enjoy  myself.  I  have  to-day  retired 
from  active  business  life ;  and  these  gentlemen  (calling 
them  by  name,  and  each  of  whom  nodded  as  his  name 
was  called),  Mr.  Longfellow,  Mr.  Emerson,  Mr.  Whit- 
tier,  and  Mr.  Holmes,  have  called  on  me  to  celebrate 
the  happy  event.  Now,  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  peanut- 
stand  on  the  corner,  and  get  me  a  quart  of  peanuts. 
These  gentlemen  have  called  on  me,  and  it  is  only  right 
that  I  should  treat  them.' 

"  I  brought  in  the  peanuts ;  and  Mr.  Fields,  after  pass 
ing  the  bag  to  his  guests  —  each  of  whom  took  a  liberal 
handful  —  offered  it  to  me,  saying,  'You  have  been  sc 
good  as  to  get  these  for  us,  you  must  eat  some  too.' 

"So  I  sat  down  with  these  great  and  good  men,  and 
listened  to  a  conversation,  which,  if  I  had  been  old 
enough  to  understand,  I  should  have  always  treasured. 
This  much  I  do  remember:  when  I  left  Mr.  Fields's 
room,  the  last  peanut  had  been  eaten. 

"In  May,  1871,  just  after  recovering  from  a  severe 
illness,  I  called  in  the  store,  and  Mr.  Benjamin  H.  Tick- 


REMINISCENCES   OF  A   JOURNALIST.  191 

nor  —  widely  known  as  one  of  the  best  and  most  kind- 
hearted  of  men  —  asked  me  if  I  would  not  like  to  ride 
out  to  Cambridge.  Of  course  I  was  glad  to  go.  He 
gave  me  a  parcel  to  take  to  Mr.  Longfellow.  1  rode 
out  to  the  old  mansion  of  the  poet,  and  found  him 
at  home  somewhat  indisposed.  He  took  me  into  his 
library,  and  bade  me  be  seated.  He  would  not  allow 
me  to  remove  the  wrappers,  but,  with  his  own  hands, 
carefully  untied  the  strings,  and  took  out  the  volumes, 
-  —  some  rare  ones  which  had  been  hunted  up  for  him,  — 
and  reverently  wiped  them  with  a  silk  handkerchief. 
Meanwhile  I  had  not  been  idle.  My  eyes,  in  wander 
ing  around  the  room,  lit  on  his  waste-basket,  and  I 
asked  permission  to  pick  out  a  scrap  of  his  writing. 
This  was  cheerfully  granted ;  and,  as  a  result  of  my 
search,  I  found  a  sheet  on  which  was  a  draught,  with 
many  corrections,  of  the  first  verse  of  his  poem  'Amalfi.' 
At  last,  having  put  away  his  books,  he  turned  to  me 
and  said,  4  Well,  what  have  you  found  ? ' 

"  4  Something  worth  keeping,'  said  I,  jealously  putting 
it  in  my  pocket. 

" 4  Let  me  see  it,'  said  the  poet. 

"  I  gave  it  to  him,  and  he  laughed.  Then  he  went  to 
his  desk,  and  wrote  thereon,  — 

Rubbish,  sacrificed  to  fame. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

;t  This  treasure  I  gave  to  a  western  library  some  }Tears 
ago. 

"  I  have,  in  connection  with  Longfellow,  but  one  re 
gret  ;  that  is,  that  in  the  time  when  I  met  him  so  fre 
quently,  I  was  but  a  mere  boy,  unable  to  appreciate  the 
man's  greatness,  and  garner  up  words  which  fell  from 
his  lips,  and  which  I  alone  heard." 


192  HENRY  WASSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


CRITICISED  BY  A  BARBER. 

it  is  related  of  Mr.  Longfellow,  that  when  his  poem 
of  The  Village  Blacksmith  was  going  through  the 
press,  he  read  the  first  two  stanzas  to  a  hairdresser  in 
Cambridge.  The  barber  criticised  the  first  line  of  the 
second  stanza,  "  His  hair  is  crisp  and  black  and  long," 
by  saying  that  crisp  black  hair  is  never  long.  Mr. 
Longfellow  was  struck  with  the  merit  of  this  criticism, 
and  instructed  his  publisher  to  substitute  the  word 
"strong  "  ibr  "long"  in  that  line.  The  next  day,  how 
ever,  he  reconsidered  the  matter,  and  sent  his  publisher 
the  following  note,  now  in  the  possession  of  a  resident 

of  Washington :  — 

CAMBRIDGE,  Oct.  1,  1845. 

DEAR  SIR,  —  I  wrote  to  you  yesterday  to  have  the  word 
"long"  changed  to  "strong,"  in  The  Village  Blacksmith. 
The  word  "strong"  occurs  in  the  preceding  line,  and  the 
repetition  would  be  unpleasant.  It  had,  therefore,  better 
stand  as  it  is,  notwithstanding  the  hairdresser's  criticism, 
which,  after  all,  is  only  technical,  for  hair  can  be  both  crisp 
and  long.  Have  you  received  any  more  numbers  of  The 
Mabinogion,  a  collection  of  Welsh  stories?  I  have  only 
five.  Will  you  please  furnish  the  remainder,  if  you  have 
them,  and,  if  not,  import  them  for  me? 

I  am  glad  to  find  that  the  "  Poets  of  Europe  "  has  been 
so  well  received.  Do  you  mean  to  take  out  a  copyright  in 
England?  If  not,  I  shall,  as  it  is  best  to  keep  the  control 

of  the  book. 

Yours  very  truly. 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

ORGAN-GRINDERS. 

One  of  the  duties  of  the  policeman  on  guard  at  the 
Longfellow  grounds  on  Friday,  the  day  of  the  death 


ANECDOTE  OF  THE  SLIPPERS.  193 

of  the  poet,  was  to  turn  away  the  players  on  hand- 
organs.  For  years  it  has  been  the  custom  of  the 
family  to  give  six  cents  to  each  hand-organ  man,  the 
result  being  that  few  of  the  peripatetic  musicians  who 
come  into  the  vicinity  fail  to  take  the  house  into  their 
circuit.  Three  appeared  on  Friday  afternoon. 

VISITS  TO  PORTLAND. 

It  was  Longfellow's  custom  always  to  visit  Portland, 
his  old  home,  for  a  week  or  so  every  year.  He  was 
always  glad,  however,  to  get  back  to  Cambridge,  which 
he  regarded  as  his  home,  and  from  which  he  never  liked 
to  be  absent.  This  reminds  one  of  Carlyle's  similar 
custom  of  annually  visiting  Scotland. 

ANECDOTE  OF  THE  SLIPPERS. 

"  Mr.  Longfellow  had  a  strong  sense  of  the  humorous, 
and  many  a  witty  impromptu  resulted  from  the  occur 
rence  of  some  slight  incident  or  accident.  One  sum 
mer,  twenty  years  ago  and  more,  when  the  Appletons 
were  living  in  Lynn,  the  poet's  son  Charles  Long 
fellow,  who  was  always  very  fond  of  sailing  a  boat, 
and  who  has  since  become  known  as  a  great  yachts 
man,  came  over  in  his  boat  one  day  to  make  a  call. 
The  surf  was  very  high,  the  boat  was  capsized,  and  he 
was  thrown  into  the  water.  He  was  wet  to  the  skin,  of 
course,  and  was  compelled  to  make  an  entire  change 
of  clothing.  Capt.  Nathan  Appleton,  in  place  of  his 
shoes,  loaned  him  a  pair  of  slippers  which  he  wore 
home.  A  few  days  afterward  his  father,  Mr.  Long 
fellow,  returned  the  slippers  in  a  neatly  wrapped  parcel, 
with  the  following  lines  written  on  the  outside :  — 
.13 


194  HENRY   WADSWORTII  LONGFELLOW. 

1  Slippers  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  the  bay  of  Lynn, 

A  forlorn  or  shipwrecked  nephew, 

Seeing,  may  purloin  again.'" 

LONGFELLOW  AND   POLITICS. 

"  Longfellow  never  took  part  in  politics,  and  rarelj 
expressed  an  opinion  on  this  subject ;  yet  he  was  well 
read  in  the  current  events  of  the  time,  and  had  a  fair 
idea  of  the  direction  of  events,  and  the  movements  of 
parties.  I  never  heard  him  talk  politics  but  once,  and 
this  was  at  his  summer  cottage  at  Nahant,  I  think  in 
1873.  Charles  Sumner  was  his  guest.  He  had  just 
got  back  from  Europe.  I  called  to  see  the  distin 
guished  senator  about  a  certain  political  movement 
then  on  foot  to  give  Gen.  Butler  the  Republican  nomi 
nation  for  governor.  Longfellow  was  present,  and, 
taking  umbrage  at  Sumner 's  conservatism  and  reti 
cence,  launched  out  in  a  furious  tirade  against  the  men 
who  were  engineering  the  Butler  movement,  denoun 
cing  the  whole  scheme  as  a  disgrace  to  Massachusetts. 
From  this  subject  he  drifted  to  the  vote  of  censure 
passed  by  the  Legislature  on  Sumner  for  his  battle-flag 
resolution  in  the  Senate,  and  said  that  Massachusetts 
had  been  falling  pretty  low  of  late  years.1  His  blue 
eyes,  usually  so  gentle,  flashed  fire  as  he  alluded  to 
these  two  incidents  in  the  politics  of  the  Common 
wealth,  which  he  was  pleased  to  cite  as  an  instance  of 
the  degeneracy  of  her  statesmanship,  and  the  lowering 
of  the  high  standard  she  had  always  maintained  in  the 
sisterhood  of  States.  It  was  a  cold,  misty  morning,  and 

1  It  does  not  appear  clearly  from  this  language  whether  Mr.  Long 
fellow  sustained  Stunner  in  his  position.  Such  \vas,  however,  the  factr 
according  to  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  friends  in  Cambridge. 


A   KANSAS  INCIDENT.  195 

the  conversation  was  carried  on  in  the  poet's  library, 
where  coffee  was  brought  in  as  the  proper  beverage 
with  which  to  treat  a  visitor.  As  the  poet  drained  his 
cup  of  Mocha,  he  said,  with  more  emphasis  than  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  using,  "  Put  me  down  as  an  anti-Butler 
man." — New  York  Herald. 

LONGFELLOW'S  FIRST  POEM. 

Longfellow's  first  printed  poem  on  "  Love  well's  Fight," 
now  lost  so  far  as  known,  is  said  to  contain  these  lines :  — 

"  I'll  kill  you,  Chamberlain,  said  he, 
And  scalp  you  when  you're  dead." 

AN  INCIDENT  IN  KANSAS. 

In  the  summer  of  1877,  Acting  Gov.  Stan  ton  of  Kansas 
paid  a  visit  to  the  citizens  of  Lawrence,  in  that  State. 
After  partaking  of  the  hospitalities  extended  him  by 
Gov.  Robinson,  he  addressed,  by  request,  a  crowd  of 
some  five  hundred  Free-State  men,  who  did  not  hesitate 
to  manifest  their  disapprobation  at  such  portions  of  his 
speech  as  did  not  accord  with  their  peculiar  political 
views.  At  the  close  of  his  speech  Mr.  Stanton  pic 
tured  in  glowing  language  the  Indian  tradition  of  Hia 
watha,  of  the  "  peace-pipe  "  shaped  and  fashioned  by 
Gitchie  Manito,  and  by  which  he  called  tribes  of  men 
together,  and  in  his  own  language  addressed  them  :  — 

"  I  have  given  you  lands  to  hunt  in, 
I  have  given  you  streams  to  fish  in, 
I  have  given  you  bear  and  bison, 
I  have  given  you  roe  and  reindeer, 
I  have  given  you  brant  and  beaver, 
Filled  the  marshes  full  of  wild  fowl, 
Filled  the  rivers  full  of  fishes  ; 
Why,  then,  are  you  not  contented? 
Why,  then,  will  you  hunt  each  other? 


196  HENEY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

"  I  am  weary  of  your  quarrels, 
Weary  of  your  wars  and  bloodshed, 
Weary  of  your  prayers  for  vengeance, 
Of  your  wranglings  and  dissensions  ; 
All  your  strength  is  in  your  union, 
All  your  danger  is  in  discord  ; 
Therefore  be  at  peace  henceforward, 
And  as  brothers  live  together." 

The  application  of  this  quotation  was  felt  by  the 
excited  crowd,  and  those  who  but  a  moment  before 
had  murmured  the  loudest  joined  heartily  in  the  unani 
mous  applause  that  followed  the  close  of  the  speaker's 
remarks. 

PAYMENT  FOR  HIS  POEMS. 

Mr.  Francis  H.  Underwood  writes  thus  of  a  visit 
he  paid  to  the  poet  a  few  weeks  before  his  death: 
"  He  told  me  of  the  early  poems,  and  of  the  payments 
which  he  did  not  receive.  The  Psalm  of  Life  and 
The  Reaper  appeared  in  the  Knickerbocker,  and  were 
never  paid  for  at  all.  The  Voices  of  the  Night  were 
printed  in  the  United  States  Literary  Gazette,  and 
the  compensation  was  —  dubious.  Mr.  Longfellow,  hav 
ing  been  informed  on  one  occasion  that  the  sum  of 
thirteen  dollars  was  subject  to  his  order  (for  two  prose 
articles  and  one  poem),  declined  the  so-called  honora 
rium,  and  accepted  a  set  of  Chatterton's  Works,  which 
are  still  in  his  library.  For  his  contributions  to  another 
periodical,  covering  some  two  or  three  years,  he  got  — 
a  receipted  bill  for  the  same  period !  We  all  know 
what  magnincicnt  appreciation  came  later."  —  Boston 
Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 


LETTERS    TO   CHARLES  LAN  MAN.  197 

LETTERS  OF  LONGFELLOW  TO  CHAELES  LANMAN. 

Charles  Lanman,  in  a  letter  to  The  New  York  Tri 
bune,  gives  some  interesting  reminiscences  of  Long 
fellow,  with  a  number  of  his  letters,  together  with  an 
extract  from  his  diary.  Mr.  Lanman  writes  :  — 

"  In  1871,  while  exhibiting  a  portfolio  of  my  sketches 
in  oil  to  a  nephew  of  Mr.  Longfellow,  we  stumbled  upon 
a  view  of  Norman's  Woe,  near  Cape  Ann,  when  he  re 
marked,  4  My  uncle  should  see  that  picture,  for  I  know 
it  would  greatly  interest  him.'  On  the  next  day,  ac 
cordingly,  I  packed  up  the  picture,  and,  with  another, 
—  a  view  on  the  coast  of  Nova  Scotia,  the  home  of 
Evangelihe,  —  sent  it  off  by  express  to  Mr.  Longfellow, 
accompanied  by  a  note  of  explanation,  in  which  I  re 
called  the  fact  of  our  meeting  many  years  before  at  the 
house  of  Park  Benjamin  in  New  York,  who  was  the 
first  to  publish  the  poem  about  the  Hesperus,  and  who 
paid  for  it  the  pittance  of  twenty-five  dollars.  The 
letter  which  Mr.  Longfellow  sent  me  in  return,  worth 
more  than  a  thousand  sketches,  was  as  follows :  — 

'  CAMBRIDGE,  Nov.  24,  1871. 

'  MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  Last  night  I  had  the  pleasure  of  re 
ceiving  your  friendly  letter,  and  the  beautiful  pictures  that 
came  with  it ;  and  I  thank  you  cordially  for  the  welcome 
gift,  and  the  kind  remembrance  that  prompted  it.  They 
are  both  very  interesting  to  me,  particularly  the  Reef  of 
Norman's  Woe.  What  you  say  of  the  ballad  is  also  very 
gratifying,  and  induces  me  to  send  you  in  return  a  bit  of 
autobiography. 

'  Looking  over  a  journal  for  1839,  a  few  days  ago,  I  found 
the  following  entries  :  — 

'  "  DEC.  17.  News  of  shipwrecks,  horrible,  on  the  coast.  Forty 
bodies  washed  ashore  near  Gloucester.  One  woman  lashed  to  a  piece 


198  HENRY   WADSU'OKTH  LONGFELLOW. 

of  wreck.  There  is  a  reef  called  Norman's  Woe,  where  many  ot 
these  took  place.  Among  others,  the  schooner  Hesperus.  Also  the 
Seaflower,  on  Black  Kock.  I  will  write  a  ballad  on  this. 

'  "  DEC.  30.  Wrote  last  evening  a  notice  of  Allston's  Poems ;  after 
which,  sat  till  one  o'clock  by  the  fire,  smoking,  when  suddenly  it 
came  into  my  head  to  write  the  Ballad  of  the  Schooner  Hesperus, 
which  I  accordingly  did.  Then  went  to  bed,  but  could  not  sleep. 
New  thoughts  were  running  in  my  mind,  and  I  got  up  to  add  them 
to  the  Ballad.  It  was  three  by  the  clock." 

4  All  this  is  of  no  importance  but  to  myself.  However,  I 
like  sometimes  to  recall  the  circumstances  under  which  a 
poem  was  written  ;  and  as  you  express  a  liking  for  this  one, 
it  may  perhaps  interest  you  to  know  why  and  when  and  how 
it  came  into  existence.  I  had  quite  forgotten  about  its  first 
publication  ;  but  I  find  a  letter  from  Park  Benjamin,  dated 
Jan.  7,  1840,  beginning  (you  wTill  recognize  his  style)  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

'  "  Your  ballad,  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  is  grand.  Enclosed  are 
twenty-five  dollars  (the  sum  you  mentioned)  for  it,  paid  by  the  pro 
prietors  of  The  New  World,  in  which  glorious  paper  it  will  resplen- 
dently  coruscate  on  Saturday  next." 

4  Pardon  this  gossip,  and  believe  me,  with  renewed  thanks, 
4  Yours  faithfully, 

'HENEY  W.  LONGFELLOW.' 

"During  the  summer  of  .1873,  while  spending  a  few 
weeks  at  Indian  Hill,  in  Massachusetts,  the  delightful 
residence  of  Ben :  Perley  Poore,  it  was  again  my  privi 
lege  to  meet  Mr.  Longfellow.  He  had  come  down 
from  Nahant,  with  his  friend  Charles  Sumner,  for  the 
purpose  of  visiting,  for  the  first  time,  the  Longfellow 
homestead  in  Newbury.  After  that  visit  he  came  by 
invitation,  with  the  Senator,  to  Indian  Hill,  where  they 
enjoyed  an  early  dinner  and  a  bit  of  old  wine;  after 
which  Mr.  Poore  took  us  all  in  his  carriage  on  a  visit 


A    VISIT   TO    WHITTIER.  199 

to  the  poet  John  G.  Whittier  at  Amesbury.  The  day 
was  charming ;  the  route  we  followed  was  down  the 
Merrimac,  and  very  lovely  ;  and  the  conversation  of 
the  lions  was  of  course  delightful.  We  found  Mr.  Whit- 
tier  at  home  ;  and  it  was  not  only  a  great  treat  to  see 
him  there,  but  a  noted  event  to  meet  socially  and  under 
one  roof  three  such  men  as  Whittier,  Sumner,  and  Long 
fellow.  The  deportment  of  the  two  poets  was  to  me 
most  captivating.  The  host,  in  his  simple  dress,  was 
as  shy  as  a  schoolboy ;  while  Mr.  Longfellow,  with  his 
white  and  flowing  hair  and  jolly  laughter,  reminded 
me  of  one  of  his  own  vikings ;  and  when  Mr.  Whittier 
brought  out  and  exhibited  to  us  an  anti-slavery  docu 
ment  which  he  had  signed  forty  years  before,  I  could 
not  help  recalling  some  of  the  splendid  things  which 
that  trio  of  great  men  had  written  on  the  subject  of 
slavery.  The  drive  to  Newburyport,  whence  Mr.  Sum 
ner  and  Mr.  Longfellow  were  to  return  to  Nahaiit,  was 
no  less  delightful  than  had  been  the  preceding  one  ; 
and  the  kindly  words  which  were  spoken  of  Mr.  Whit 
tier  proved  that  he  was  highly  honored  and  loved  by 
his  noted  friends,  as  he  is  by  the  world  at  large.  Be 
fore  parting  from  Mr.  Longfellow,  he  took  me  one  side, 
and  spoke  with  great  interest  of  the  old  homestead  he 
had  that  morning  visited,  and  expressed  a  wish  that  I 
should  make  a  sketch  of  it  for  him,  as  it  was  then  two 
hundred  year?  old,  and  rapidly  going  to  decay.  On 
the  following  morning  I  went  to  the  spot,  and  complied 
with  his  request.  A  few  weeks  afterward  I  sent  him 
a  finished  picture  of  the  house,  not  forgetting  the  well- 
sweep  and  the  old  stone  horse-block,  in  which  he  felt  a 
special  interest;  and  he  acknowledged  the  receipt  of 
the  picture  in  these  words :  — 


200  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

1  CAMBRIDGE,  Oct.  18, 1873. 

'  MY  DEAR  8m,  —  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving 
your  very  friendly  note,  and  the  picture  of  the  old  home 
stead  at  Newbury ;  for  both  of  which  I  pray  you  to  accept 
my  most  cordial  thanks.  Be  assured  that  I  value  your  gift 
highly,  and  appreciate  the  kindness  which  prompted  it,  and 
the  trouble  you  took  in  making  the  portraits  of  the  old  house 
and  tree.  They  are  very  exact,  and  will  always  remind  me 
of  that  pleasant  summer  day,  and  Mr.  Poore's  chateau  and 
his  charming  family,  and  yours.  If  things  could  ever  be 
done  twice  over  in  this  world,  —  which  they  cannot,  —  I 
should  like  to  live  that  day  over  again. 

i  With  kind  regards  to  Mrs.  Lanman,  not  forgetting  a  word 
and  a  kiss  to  your  little  Japanese  ward  (Ume  Tsuda) .  I  am, 
my  dear  sir, 

'  Yours  truly, 

'HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW.' 

"  When  the  poem  of  Keramos  was  published,  in  No 
vember,  1877,  I  had  a  translation  made  into  Japanese 
of  that  portion  of  it  alluding  to  Japan,  and  forwarded 
it  to  the  poet,  with  an  explanation  as  to  how  the  trans 
formation  had  taken  place ;  the  young  gentleman  who 
made  the  translation  having  been  Mr.  Amano  Koziro, 
then  of  the  Japanese  legation.  The  acknowledgment 
sent  me  by  Mr.  Longfellow  was  as  follows :  — 

4  CAMBRIDGE,  Nov.  23, 1877. 

'  MY  DEAR  SIR,  — I  have  this  morning  had  the  pleasure  of 
receiving  your  letter,  and  the  Japanese  version  of  a  portion 
of  Keramos,  which  you  were  kind  enough  to  send  me,  and 
for  which  I  beg  you  to  accept  my  cordial  thanks.  I  shall 
put  it  away  with  The  Psalm  of  Life,  written  in  Chinese  on  a 
fan.  What  I  should  like  now  is  a  literal  retranslation  of  the 
Japanese  into  English. 


LETTERS   TO   CHARLES  LANMAN.  201 

4  In  the  introduction  there  is  a  slight  error,  which  is  worth 
correcting.  It  is  the  Poet,  not  the  Potter,  who  takes  the 
aerial  flight,  and  in  imagination  visits  far-off  lands  ;  also, 
K6ramos  is  rather  potter's  earth  than  earthenware.  But  the 
difference  is  slight,  and  hardly  worth  noticing,  unless  one 
wishes  to  be  very  particular. 

'  You  will  rejoice,  as  I  do,  in  the  complete  vindication  of 
Sumner's  memory  from  the  imputations  so  recklessly  cast 
upon  it.  With  great  regard, 

4  Yours  very  truly, 

'HENRY  W,  LONGFELLOW.' 

"In  November,  1881,  when  my  work  entitled  Curious 
Characters  and  Pleasant  Places  was  published  in  Edin 
burgh,  because  of  the  fact  that  it  contained  a  chapter 
on  Anticosti,  where  Mr.  Longfellow's  first  American 
ancestor  lost  his  life  (he  who  had  built  the  Newbury 
homestead),  I  sent  him  a  copy ;  and  in  my  note  I  asked 
him  for  his  views  on  the  propriety  of  printing  the  pri 
vate  letters  of  living  men  without  their  consent.  I  had 
noticed  in  Barry  Cornwall's  autobiography  several  of 
Mr.  Longfellow's  own  letters  ;  and  as  I  was  then  exam 
ining  the  very  interesting  correspondence  of  the  late 
Professor  Samuel  Tyler,  with  a  view  to  publication,  I 
desired  to  be  fortified  with  the  poet's  opinion ;  and  the 
result  of  my  application  was  as  follows :  — 

'  CAMBRIDGE,  Dec.  3, 1881. 

4  DEAR  MR.  LANMAN,  —  I  was  very  glad  to  get  your  letter, 
and  the  copy  of  your  Recollections.  It  is  a  handsome  vol 
ume,  and  most  inviting  in  appearance.  I  shall  read  it  with 
the  greatest  interest,  as  soon  as  I  am  able  to  read  any  thing ; 
but  at  present  I  am  confined  to  my  room  by  illness,  —  a 
trouble  in  the  head  which  prevents  continuous  attention  to 


202  HENRY    WADSWORTU  LONGFELLOW. 

any  thing.     I  hope  this  will  soon  pass  away,  and  all  be  right 
again. 

4  The  publication  of  private  letters  of  living  persons  is  cer 
tainly  a  delicate  question.  It  is,  however,  universally  prac 
tised  in  biographies.  One  must  be  guided  by  the  importance 
of  the  letters  themselves.  I  should  omit  every  thing  that 
could  in  any  way  compromise  the  writer,  as  I  see  by  your  let 
ter  you  would.  There  are  letters  that  do  honor  to  the  writer 
and  the  receiver.  These  certainly  should  not  be  omitted. 

4  Meanwhile,  accept  my  sincere   and  cordial  thanks   for 
your  kind  remembrance,  and  believe  me, 
'  Yours  faithfully, 

'HENRY  W.   LONGFELLOW.' 

"  The  foregoing  letter  was  among  the  last  written  by 
Mr.  Longfellow  ;  and  the  brief  allusion  to  bis  illness, 
as  we  read  it  to-day,  has  a  pathos  allied  to  some  of  his 

saddest  poems. 

"CHARLES   LANMAN. 

"WASHINGTON,  B.C.,  April  13,  1882." 

THE  POET'S  EXPLANATION  OF  EXCELSIOR. 

Mr.  Longfellow  wrote  the  following  letter  to  Henry 
T.  Tuckerman  many  years  ago,  and  it  has  just  found 
its  way  into  print  in  The  London  Telegraph :  — 

I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  your  note  in  regard 
to  the  poem  Excelsior,  and  very  willingly  give  you  my  inten 
tion  in  writing  it.  This  was  no  more  than  to  display,  in 
a  series  of  pictures,  the  life  of  a  man  of  genius,  resisting 
all  temptations,  laying  aside  all  fears,  heedless  of  all  warn 
ings,  and  pressing  right  on  to  accomplish  his  purpose.  His 
motto  is  Excelsior, —  "higher."  He  passes  through  the 
Alpine  village, —  through  the  rough,  cold  paths  of  the  world, 
—  where  the  peasants  cannot  understand  him,  and  where 


THE  CRAIG  IE  HOUSE.  203 

his  watchword  is  "an  unknown  tongue."  He  disregards  the 
happiness  of  domestic  peace,  and  sees  the  glaciers  —  his 
fate  —  before  him.  He  disregards  the  warnings  of  the  old 
man's  wisdom  and  the  fascinations  of  woman's  love.  He 
answers  to  all,  "  Higher  yet !  "  The  monks  of  St.  Bernard 
are  the  representatives  of  religious  forms  and  ceremonies, 
and  with  their  oft-repeated  prayer  mingles  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  telling  them  there  is  something  higher  than  forms  or 
ceremonies.  Filled  with  these  aspirations  he  perishes  with 
out  having  reached  the  perfection  he  longed  for ;  and  the 
voice  heard  in  the  air  is  the  promise  of  immortality  and 
progress  ever  upward.  You  will  perceive  that  "  excelsior," 
an  adjective  of  the  comparative  degree,  is  used  adverbially ; 
a  use  justified  by  the  best  Latin  writers.  I  remain, 
Very  truly  yours, 

HENRY  W.    LONGFELLOW. 

AN  APT  QUOTATION. 

It  is  said,  that,  when  Mr.  Longfellow  was  introduced 
to  the  late  Nicholas  Longworth  of  Cincinnati,  reference 
was  made  to  the  similarity  of  the  first  syllables  of 
their  names,  whereupon  Mr.  Longfellow  immediately 
responded  with  the  line  from  Pope,  — 

"Worth  makes  the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow." 
The  repartee,  if  authentic,  is  one  of  the  best  on  record. 

CATAWBA  WINE. 

Speaking  of  Mr.  Longworth,  it  is  apropos  to  say  that 
our  poet's  genial  song,  Catawba  Wine,  is  understood 
to  have  been  written  on  the  receipt  of  a  case  of  that 
delicate  liquor  from  his  Cincinnati  friend.  It  was  Mr. 
Longworth  who  first  produced  the  Catawba  grape  by 
elaborate  experiments  in  cross-fertilization.  Let  us 
hear  a  stanza  or  two  of  the  poem  :  — 


204  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

For  richest  and  best 

Is  the  wine  of  the  West, 
That  grows  by  the  Beautiful  River ; 

Whose  sweet  perfume 

Fills  all  the  room 
With  a  benison  on  the  giver. 

And  this  Song  of  the  Vine, 

This  greeting  of  mine, 
The  winds  and  the  birds  shall  deliver 

To  the  Queen  of  the  West, 

In  her  garlands  dressed, 
On  the  banks  of  the  Beautiful  River. 

WASHINGTON  AT  CRAIGIE  HOUSE. 

At  the  close  of  the  Revolutionary  War,  it  was  no 
ticed  that  there  was  a  large  quantity  of  lead  on  the 
roof.  Undoubtedly,  if  Washington  had  known  this 
fact,  he  would  have  confiscated  it  for  the  purpose  of 
having  it  cast  into  bullets,  —  lead  being  very  scarce  in 
those  days.  The  fact  that  he  did  not  discover  it  seems 
to  indicate  that  he  never  visited  the  roof  of  the  mansion 
which  he  was  making  his  headquarters.  The  roof  is 
four-sided,  and  has  on  its  summit  a  flat  area  which 
is  railed  in,  and  forms  a  very  pleasant  place  for  loun 
ging  or  star-gazing.  But  the  Father  of  his  Country  had 
sterner  business  in  hand  than  star-gazing,  and  looking 
at  landscapes.  His  business  was  to  think  and  plan 
wearily  and  anxiously  in  his  own  room  below. 

VIA  SOLITARIA. 

A  curious  bit  of  literary  history  is  the  following  story 
of  a  poem  published  in  The  New  York  Independent 
shortly  after  Longfellow's  death.  It  purported  to  be 


VIA   SOLITARIA.  205 

a  posthumous  production  of  the  Cambridge  poet,  and 
to  have  been  written  by  him  in  1863,  two  years 
after  the  afflicting  death  of  his  second  wife.  It  was 
nearly  enough  like  Mr.  Longfellow's  other  minor 
poems  in  style  to  pass  unchallenged  by  anybody,  yet 
doubtless  many  must  have  felt  that  somehow  it  had 
not  the  Longfellow  stamp  upon  it.  It  is  strange,  too, 
that  editors  had  not  noticed  the  internal  evidence 
against  its  authenticity.  In  the  last  stanza  but  one, 
the  poet  speaks  of  a  "child  and  mother  straying  in 
robes  of  white."  On  the  supposition  that  the  poem 
was  written  by  Mr.  Longfellow,  these  lines  are  explic 
able  only  if  referred  to  his  first  wife ;  but  evidently 
only  one  person  is  referred  to  throughout  the  poem, 
and  it  is  almost  impossible  that  Mr.  Longfellow  would 
have  referred  to  his  first  wife  in  a  poem  the  subject  of 
which  is  the  death  of  his  second  wife.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  poem  was  written  by  Mr.  O.  M.  Conover 
of  Madison,  Wis.,  and  was  published  in  The  New 
York  Independent  for  July  2,  1863,  p.  6,  and  signed 
^  O.  M.  C.,  Madison,  Wis."  A  Cambridge  lady  sent  a 
copy  of  the  poem  to  Mr.  Conover,  not  long  after  it 
was  published,  and  received  a  reply  from  him,  with  his 
corrections  of  certain  errors  that  had  crept  into  the 
piece  during  its  wanderings. 

The  mistake  probably  arose  in  this  way :  The  poem 
was  sent  in  manuscript  form  to  more  than  one  friend 
in  or  near  Boston.  It  is  presumable  that  one  of  these 
manuscript  copies  was  by  some  mistake  sent  to  Professor 
H.  M.  Goodwin  of  Olivet  College,  Michigan,  as  a 
poem  by  Longfellow,  after  whose  death  Professor  Good 
win  sent  it  in  good  faith  to  The  Independent. 

It  is  here  reproduced  with  its  author's  corrections 
(five  in  number)  i  — 


206  HENRY    WADSWORT1I  LONGFELLOW. 


VIA   SOLITARIA. 

Alone  I  walk  the  peopled  city, 

Where  each  seems  happy  with  his  own ; 
O  friends,  I  ask  not  for  your  pity,  — 
I  walk  alone. 

No  more  for  me  yon  lake  rejoices, 

Though  wooed  by  loving  airs  of  June ; 

0  birds,  your  sweet  and  piping  voices 

Are  out  of  tune. 

In  vain  for  me  the  elm-tree  arches 

Its  plumes  in  many  a  feathery  spray; 
In  vain  the  evening's  starry  inarches 
And  sunlit  day. 

In  vain  your  beauty,  summer  flowers  ; 
Ye  cannot  greet  those  cordial  eyes ; 
They  gaze  on  other  fields  than  ours,  — 
On  other  skies. 

The  gold  is  rifled  from  the  coffer, 

The  blade  is  stolen  from  the  sheath ; 
Life  has  but  one  more  boon  to  offer, 
And  that  is  —  Death. 

Yet  well  I  know  the  voice  of  Duty, 

And  therefore  life  and  health  must  crave, 
Though  she  who  gave  the  world  its  beauty 
Is  in  her  grave. 

1  live,  O  lost  one  !  for  the  living 

Who  drew  their  earliest  life  from  thee, 
And  wait  until, with  glad  thanksgiving, 
I  shall  be  free. 

For  life  to  me  is  as  a  station 

Wherein  apart  a  traveller  stands  — 
One  absent  long  from  home  and  nation, 
In  other  lands ; 


MAD   RIVER.  207 

And  1,  as  he  who  stands  and  listens, 

Amid  the  twilight's  chill  and  gloom, 
To  hear,  approaching  in  the  distance, 
The  train  for  home. 

For  death  shall  bring  another  mating;  — 

Beyond  the  shadows  of  the  tomb, 
On  yonder  shore  a  bride  is  waiting 
Until  I  come. 

In  yonder  fields  are  children  playing, 

And  there  —  O  vision  of  delight !  — 
I  see  a  child  and  mother  straying 
In  robes  of  white. 

Thou,  then,  the  longing  heart  that  breakest, 

Stealing  its  treasures  one  by  one, 
I'll  call  thee  blessed  when  thou  makest 
The  parted  —  one. 


A  POSTHUMOUS  POEM. 

Iii  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  May,  1882,  appeared  a 
posthumous  poem  by  Mr.  Longfellow,  entitled  "  Mad 
River."  How  sweet  and  delicate  is  the  melody  of  thes** 
stanzas  !  One  can  hardly  read  the  lines  without  singing 
them.  The  poem  will  undoubtedly  be  set  to  music, 
and  become  as  popular  a  song  as  Tennyson's  "  Brook." 
This  power  of  turning  words  into  perfect  music  is  the 
surest  test  of  poetic  genius.  No  other  American  poets 
have  possessed  so  much  deep  interior  music  as  have 
Poe  and  Longfellow.  To  the  haunting  music  of  this 
river  song  the  poet  has  wedded  artless  sentiment  and 
exquisite  poetical  imagery.  How  pretty  the  simile  of 
the  child  timidly  descending  the  steps! 


208  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


MAD   RIVER. 

Why  dost  thou  wildly  rush  and  roar, 

Mad  River,  O  Mad  River? 
Wilt  thou  not  pause,  and  cease  to  pour 
Thy  hurrying,  headlong  waters  o'er 

This  rocky  shelf  forever  ? 

What  secret  trouble  stirs  thy  breast  ? 

Why  all  this  fret  and  flurry  ? 
Dost  thou  not  know  that  what  is  best 
In  this  too  restless  world  is  rest 

From  overwork  and  worry  ? 

A  brooklet  nameless  and  unknown 

Was  I  at  first,  resembling 
A  little  child,  that  all  alone 
Comes  venturing  down  the  stairs  of  stone, 

Irresolute  and  trembling. 

Later,  by  wayward  fancies  led, 
For  the  wide  world  I  panted ; 

Out  of  the  forest  dark  and  dread 

Across  the  open  fields  I  fled, 
Like  one  pursued  and  haunted. 

Men  call  me  Mad,  and  well  they  may, 

When,  full  of  rage  and  trouble, 
I  burst  my  banks  of  sand  and  clay, 
And  sweep  their  wooden  bridge  away, 
Like  withered  reeds  or  stubble. 

Now  go  and  write  thy  little  rhyme, 

As  of  thine  own  creating. 
Thou  seest  the  day  is  past  its  prime  ; 
I  can  no  longer  waste  my  time ; 

The  mills  are  tired  of  waiting. 


DEPRET  ^S  REMINISCENCES.  209 


REMINISCENCES  OF  M.   LOUIS  DEPRET. 

A  valued  friend  and  correspondent  of  Mr.  Long 
fellow  was  M.  Louis  Depret  of  Paris.  He  says  the  poet 
"  was  wonderfully  well  acquainted  with  the  capital  of 
France  ;  because  he  had  lived  in  it  a  couple  of  years 
almost  half  a  century  ago  when  he  was  preparing  him 
self,  by  conscientious  study  of  the  Old  World,  for  the 
chair  of  professor  of  foreign  literature  in  Harvard 
College.  .  .  .  Longfellow  was,  of  all  the  great  writers 
whom  it  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  approach,  the  one 
whose  genial  intercourse,  without  affectation,  but  still 
singularly  authoritative,  best  exemplified  what  one 
ought  to  understand  by  a  noble  spirit." 

M.  Depret  thinks  that  the  conversation  of  Longfellow 
was  "  the  original  expression  of  a  soul."  He  sa}rs  he 
had  a  way  of  saying  things  as  if  he  had  found  them 
out  for  himself.  He  continues,  "I  accompanied  him  all 
about  Paris, — to  the  Sainte  Chapelle,  to  the  Hotel  Lam 
bert,  where  the  lamented  M.  Vautrain,  the  intimate 
friend  of  the  Czartoriski  princes,  officiated  as  a  guide ; 
and  we  also  visited  numerous  theatres.  At  the  Comedie- 
Frangaise,  Longfellow  made  the  curious  remark  that  the 
French  language  was  no  longer  pronounced  by  the 
actors  of  1869  as  it  was  by  their  elders  of  1829.  The 
apartment  of  the  great  American  was  in  one  of  the 
pleasantest  hotels  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  and  was  visited 
by  a  very  variegated  collection  of  people  daily.  Among 
them  was  the  Dominican,  Hyacinthe.  And  in  Long 
fellow's  parlor  we  met  for  the  first  time  the  man  whose 
name  was  famous,  and  whose  personality  was  almost 
completely  unknown,  the  old  poet  of  the  Iambics," 
namely,  Auguste  Barbier. 
14 


210  1IENHY    H'ADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

LONGFELLOW  RELICS. 

Among  the  objects  of  interest  and  relics  exhibited 
in  Portland  on  the  occasion  of  the  celebration  of  the 
poet's  seventy-fifth  birthday  were,  an  oil-portrait  of  the 
poet's  father  ;  a  bust  of  the  poet ;  an  oil-portrait  of  him  at 
the  age  of  nineteen  years  ;  a  silver  tankard  and  porringer 
which  had  been  owned  by  his  great-grandfather;  the 
edition  de  luxe  of  his  works,  and,  by  way  of  contrast, 
some  copies  of  his  first  publications ;  the  original  letter 
of  Parson  Smith  inviting  Stephen  Longfellow,  the 
schoolmaster,  to  come  to  Portland ;  a  sword  and  belt 
bearing  this  inscription,  1A  Tribute  of  Valour  from 
the  citizens  of  Portland  to  Lieut.  Alex.  Scammell  Wads- 
worth  [uncle  of  the  poet]  of  the  United  States  Navy ; ' 
autograph  letters  of  Stephen  Longfellow,  father,  the 
blacksmith  and  lieutenant ;  of  Stephen  Longfellow,  son, 
the  schoolmaster,  etc. 

DENIAL  OF   THE   CHARGE   OF   PLAGIARISM. 

Mr.  Longfellow,  in  "Graham's  Magazine  "  for  1845, 
made  the  following  reply  to  the  charge  of  plagiarizing 
a  Scotch  ballad :  — 

Cambridge,  February  19,  1845. 

DEAR  SIK,  —  Perhaps  you  may  remember  that,  a  year  or  two  ago,  I 
published  in  your  Magazine  a  translation  from  the  German  of  O.  L. 
B.  Wolf,  entitled  "The  Good  George  Campbell."  Within  a  few 
days  I  have  seen  a  paragraph  in  a  newspaper,  asserting,  in  very  dis 
courteous  language,  that  this  was  not  a  translation  from  the  German, 
but  a  plagiarism  from  a  Scotch  ballad  published  in  MotherwelPs 
"  Minstrelsy."  My  object  in  writing  you  is  to  deny  this  charge,  and 
to  show  that  the  poem  I  sent  you  is  what  it  pretended  to  be. 

As  I  was  passing  up  the  Rhine,  in  the  summer  of  1842,  a  gentleman 
with  whom  I  had  become  acquainted  on  board  the  steamer  put  into 
my  hands  a  collection  of  German  poems,  entitled  Den  tucker  Scing- 
cr-Saal,  edited  by  Gollmich.  In  this  collection  I  found  "The  Good 
George  Campbell."  It  there  appeared  as  an  original  poem  by  Wolf, 


DENIAL   OF  THE  CHARGE  OF  PLAGIARISM.      211 

and  I  was  so  much  struck  with  its  simplicity  and  beauty  that  I  imme 
diately  M'rote  a  translation  of  it,  with  a  pencil,  in  my  pocket-book, 
and  the  same  evening,  at  Mayence,  made  a  copy  of  the  German, 
which  I  enclose. 

Soon  after  my  return  to  this  country  my  version  was  published  in 
your  Magazine.  At  that  time  I  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  that 
the  German  poem  was  itself  a  translation,  nor  was  I  aware  of  the 
fact  till  Mr.  Griswold,  then  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Magazine,  wrote 
to  me  upon  the  subject,  and  sent  me  a  copy  of  the  Scotch  ballad  from 
which  he  supposed  the  German  poem  to  have  been  taken.  1  had 
never  before  seen  it,  and  I  could  not  but  smile  at  my  own  ignorance, 
which  had  thus  led  me  to  re-translate  a  translation.  I  immediately 
answered  Mr.  Griswold's  note,  but  as  he  did  not  publish  my  answer, 
I  thought  no  more  of  the  matter. 

My  attention  being  again  called  to  the  subject  by  the  paragraph 
alluded  to  above,  and  the  ballad  from  Motlierwell's  Collection,  which 
was  printed  with  it,  and  which  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen 
before,  1  turned  to  Mr.  Griswold's  letter,  and  found  that  his  version 
of  the  poem  differed  very  materially  from  Motlierwell's  and  seemed 
to  be  but  a  fragment  of  some  longer  ballad.  It  is  as  follows: 

HAME  NEVER  CAME  HE. 

Saddled  and  bridled  and  booted  rode  lie, 
A  plume  at  bis  helmet,  a  sword  at  bis  knee; 
But  torn  cam'  the  saddle,  all  bluidy  to  see, 
And  name  cam'  the  steed,  but  hame  never  cam'  he. 

Down  cam'  his  gray  father,  sabbin'  sae  fiair, 
Down  cam'  his  auld  mither,  tearin'  her  hair, 
Down  cam'  his  sweet  wife,  wie  bonnie  bairns  three, 
Ane  at  her  bosom  an'  twa  at  her  knee. 

There  stood  the  fleet  steed,  all  foamin'  an'  hot, 
There  shrieked  his  sweet  wife,  an'  sank  on  the  spot; 
There  stood  his  gray  father,  weepin'  sae  free, — 
Sac  hame  cam'  his  steed,  but  hame  never  cam'  he. 

Having  with  some  difficulty  procured  a  copy  of  Motlierwell's 
"Minstrelsy,"  I  find  the  following  note  prefixed  to  the  ballad. 
"Bonnie  George  Campbell  is  probably  a  lament  for  one  of  the 
adherents  of  the  house  of  Argyle,  who  fell  in  the  battle  of  Glenlie- 
vat,  stricken  on  Thursday,  the  third  day  of  October,  1594  years. 
(Gordon's  Earldom  of  Sutherland.)  Of  this  ballad  Mr.  Finlay  had 
only  recovered  three  stanzas,  which  he  has  given  in  the  preface  to  his 
'Scottish  Historical  and  Romantic  Ballads,'  page  03,  introduced  by  the 
following  remarks  — '  There  Is  another  fragment  still  remaining,  which 


212 


HENRY    WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


appears  to  have  belonged  to  a  ballad  of  adventure,  perhaps  of  real 
history.  I  am  acquainted  with  no  poem,  of  which  the  lines,  as  they 
stand,  can  be  supposed  to  have  formed  a  part.'  The  words  and  the 
music  of  this  Lament  are  published  in  the  fifth  volume  of  the  'Scot 
tish  Minstrelsy.'"  The  other  ''fragment  still  remaining"  is  proba 
bly  the  poem  sent  me  by  Mr.  Griswold. 

Since  I  have  seen  the  Scotch  ballad  in  Motherwell  I  have  detected, 
by  means  of  it,  a  misprint  in  the  German  poem.  The  last  word  of 
the  second  line  is  Tag  (day)  instead  of  Tay,  the  name  of  the 
river.  I  translated  the  word  as  it  stood,  and  thus  the  accidental 
misprint  of  a  single  letter  has  become  an  unimpeachable  witness  of 
the  falsity  of  the  charge  brought  against  me. 

Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  publish  this  letter  and  the  several 
versions  of  the  poem  inclosed? 

Yours  truly,  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


BONNIE    GEORGE    CAMP 

DER   GUTE   GEORGE 

THE    GOOD    GEORGE 

BELL. 

CAMPBELL. 

CAMPBELL. 

MOTHERWELL. 

WOLF. 

LONGFELLOW. 

Hie  upon  Hielands, 

Iloch  auf  dem  HocMand, 

High  on  the  Highlands, 

And  low  upon  Tay, 

Utul  tief  an  dem  Tag, 

And  deep  in  the  day, 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 

Der  gute  George  Campbell 

The  good  George  Campbell 

Rade  out  on  a  day. 

Kitt  eines  Tagxfrei. 

Rode  free  and  away. 

Saddled  and  bridled 

Gc.iattelt,  gez'dumt, 

All  saddled,  all  bridled, 

And  gallant  rade  he; 

Uitd  geschmvckt  ritt  er. 

Gay  garments  he  wore; 

Haine  cam  his  glide  horse, 

Hcim  kam  sein  gutes  Ross, 

Home  came  his  good  steed. 

But  never  cam  he. 

Dock  er  nimmermehr. 

But  he  nevermore. 

Out  cam  his  auld  mither. 

flimuis  trat  die  Mutter, 

Out  came  his  mother, 

Greeting  fu'  sair, 

Weinend  so  sehr; 

Weeping  so  sadly; 

And  out  cam  his  bonnie  bride, 

Hinaus  die  schone  Braut, 

Out  came  his  beauteous  bride, 

Rivin1  her  hair. 

Klagend  so  schwer. 

Weeping  so  madly. 

Saddled  and  bridled 

Gesattelt,  gezawnt, 

All  saddled,  all  bridled, 

And  hooted  rade  lie; 

Und  gestiefelt  ritt  er. 

Strong  armor  he  wore  ; 

Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

Heim  kam  der  Sattel, 

Home  came  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he. 

Doch  er  nimmermehr. 

But  he  nevermore. 

"  My  meadow  lies  green, 

"Afeine  Wiese  liegt  grim, 

My  meadow  lies  green, 

And  my  corn  is  unshorn  ; 

Und  mcin  Kornungeschoren, 

Unreaped  is  my  corn; 

My  barn  is  to  big, 

Meine  IScheune  ist  leer. 

My  garner  is  empty, 

And  my  baby's  unborn." 

Und  mein  Kind  ungeboren." 

My  child  is  unborn. 

Saddled  and  bridled 

Gesattelt,  gezawnt, 

All  saddled,  all  bridled, 

And  booted  rade  he; 

Und  gesttefclt  ritt  er. 

Sharp  weapons  he  bore; 

Toum  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

ZurOck  kam  der  Sattel, 

Home  came  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he. 

Doch  er  selbst  nimmermehr. 

But  he  nevermore. 

"I  KNEW  BY  THE   BOOTS  THAT  SO  TERRIBLY  CREAKED." 

The  mother  of  Capt.  Nathan   Appleton   was  a   Miss 
Sumner,  a  cousin   of   Charles   Sumner,      She  was   of 


HIS    WORKS  IN  ENGLAND.  213 

about  the  same  age  as  Longfellow,  and  the  two  were 
always  intimate  friends.  Before  she  married  Mr.  Apple- 
ton,  and  before  Mr.  Longfellow  was  married,  one  day 
when  the  poet  came  from  Portland  to  call  upon  her,  he 
wore  a  pair  of  new  boots,  which  were  very  noisy.  When 
he  went  away  the  next  day  he  left  a  little  poem  written 
on  a  card,  which  Capt.  Appleton  still  has  in  his  posses 
sion.  It  is  as  follows  :  — 

"  I  knew  by  the  boots  that  so  terribly  creaked, 
Along  the  front  entry,  a  stranger  was  near : 
I  said,  If  there's  grease  to  be  found  in  the  world, 
My  friend  from  the  East  stands  in  need  of  it  here." 

SALE  OF  HIS  WORKS  IN  ENGLAND. 

Amelia  B.  Edwards,  of  Westbury,  Eng.,  gives  in  The 
Literary  World  some  interesting  data  concerning  the 
sale  of  Longfellow's  works  in  England:  — 

"  There  cannot,  I  imagine,  be  any  doubt  that  Profes 
sor  Longfellow  is  in  England  the  most  widely  read  of 
living  poets.  Messrs.  Rout-ledge  &  Sons,  who  are  his 
authorized  publishers  in  this  country,  have  on  sale  at 
the  present  moment  eight  different  editions  of  his  works, 
varying  in  price  from  one  shilling  to  one  guinea ;  while 
at  least  a  dozen  other  houses  —  profiting  by  the  absence 
of  an  international  copyright  law  —  publish  unauthor 
ized  editions  adapted  in  like  manner  to  the  tastes  and 
purses  of  all  classes.  Thus  it  is  that  our  English  ver 
sions,  answering  to  the  demand  created  by  an  unbounded 
popularity,  are  as  the  leaves  on  the  trees,  or  the  pebbles 
on  the  shore.  Thus  it  is  that  at  every  bookseller's  shop 
in  town  or  country  '  Longfellow's  Poems '  are  a  staple 
of  trade.  As  a  prize-book  for  schools,  as  a  gift-book,  as 
a  drawing-room  table-book,  as  a  pocket  volume  for  the 


214  HENRY    WADSWQRTI1  LONGFELLOW. 

woods  and  fields,  our  familiar  and  beloved  friend  of 
something  like  forty  years  meets  us  at  every  turn.  Of 
new  copies  alone,  it  is  calculated  that  not  less  than 
thirty  thousand  are  annually  sold  in  the  United  King 
dom  ;  and  who  shall  estimate  the  average  sale  of  copies 
in  the  second-hand  market?  That  it  should  repay  his 
English  publishers,  in  the  face  of  unlimited  competition, 
to  purchase  a  few  weeks'  precedence  at  the  high  rate 
paid  by  Messrs.  Routledge  for  Professor  Longfellow's 
early  sheets,  is  evidence  enough  of  the  eagerness  with 
which  we  welcome  every  line  that  falls  from  his  pen. 
For  advance  proofs  of  the  *  New-England  Tragedies  '  - 
perhaps  the  poet's  least  successful  volume  —  those  emi 
nent  publishers  gave  no  less  a  sum  than  one  thousand 
pounds  sterling." 

A  LETTER  OF  THE   POET. 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  Nov.  20,  1852. 

DEAR  Miss  COOK,  —  It  gives  me  very  sincere  pleasure  to 
add  my  name  to  the  list  of  subscribers  for  Hood's  monu 
ment,  as  you  request  in  your  friendly  note  ;  and  I  will  for 
ward  my  contribution  through  Mr.  Fields,  who  will  have 
some  others  to  send  at  the  same  time. 

Do  not  weigh  my  admiration  for  Hood's  genius  by  the 
amount  of  my  subscription.  That  must  be  estimated  by  a 
very  different  scale  of  weights  and  measures.  Dear  Hood 
I  should  say  instead  of  Poor  Hood  !  For  he  who  wrote  the 
"Song  of  the  Shirt"  and  the  "Bridge  of  Sighs"  is  very 
dear  to  every  human  heart. 

Poor  Mrs.  Hood  and  the  children,  who  have  lost  him  ! 
They  will  have  forgotten  the  stranger  who  called  one  Octo 
ber  morning  some  years  ago  with  Dickens,  and  was  hospita 
bly  entertained  by  them.  But  I  remember  the  visit,  and  the 
pale  face  of  the  poet,  and  the  house  in  St.  John's  Wood. 


GENERAL    WILSON'S  REMINISCENCES.         215 

If  the  family  is  still  there,  may  I  beg  you  to  present  my 
regards   and   remembrances.     With   many  thanks    for  your 
note  and  many  expressions  of  friendly  interest, 
Yours  faithfully, 

HENRY  W.   LONGFELLOW. 
PKK  STEAM  PACKET. 
Miss  ELIZA  COOK,  54,  GT.  ORMOND  ST., 
QUEEN  SQUARE,  LONDON. 

—  TJie  Athenceum. 

GEN.  JAMES  GRANT  WILSON'S  REMINISCENCES. 

From  an  article  by  Gen.  James  Grant  Wilson,  in 
The  New  York  Independent,  the  following  charming 
reminiscences  are  extracted  :  — 

"  The  poet  having  told  me  that  he  had  seen  scores  of 
parodies  of  '  Excelsior,'  but  had  never  met  with  one 
that  my  father  had  written,  in  which  many  dialects 
are  introduced,  I  sent  it  to  him  ;  and  when  we  met 
again  he  amused  all  present  by  repeating  three  or  four 
of  the  twenty-five  verses  describing  a  singing  hodman's 
ascent  of  a  lofty  ladder  :  — 

'  M on  ami  I  vill  parley  vous 
Von  leetle  vord  ;  'tis  mah  you  do  ! 
Ver  goot,  sare  ;  Chacun  a  son  gout; 
Excelsior ! 

'Brava!  brava!  bravissima! 
Encore I  excellentissirna ! 
Primo  tenor!  dolcisshna! 

Excelsior ! 

'  By  coot  Saint  Tavit  an'  hur  leek  ! 
She'd  rather  fast  for  half  ta  week 
Tan  shuttle  on  tat  shoggy  stick ! 
Excelsior ! 


216  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

1  Mem  Cot !  dot  man  vill  break  him  pones, 
And  knock  him  prain  upon  de  stones ; 
Der  Teufel !  did  you  heert  vat  tones ! 
Excelsior ! ' 


Longfellow  imitating  the  French,  Italian,  Welsh,  and 
German  speakers  in  a  most  successful  manner. 

"Mr.  Longfellow  writes  to  me  in  1870  saying:  — 

" c  I  have  read  your  privately  printed  volume  with 
great  pleasure.  It  is  a  most  interesting  life,  and  the 
sweet  and  dignified  face  of  the  Chief  Justice  gives  an 
added  grace  to  it.  The  powdered  hair  and  white  cra 
vat  remind  me  of  the  old  judges  and  gentlemen  of  the 
bar  that  I  used  to  see  when  I  was  a  boy  in  Portland.' 

"  Writing  in  1872,  the  poet  says  :  — 

" '  Your  letter  and  the  valuable  present  of  Mr.  S.  C. 
Hall  have  reached  me  safely.  Please  accept  my  best 
thanks  for  the  great  kindness  you  have  shown  in  tak 
ing  charge  of  and  bringing  from  the  Old  World  a  gift 
so  precious  as  the  inkstand  of  the  poet  who  wrote  the 
Rhyme  of  the  Ancient  Mariner.  Will  you  be  so  good 
as  to  send  me  the  present  address  of  Mr.  Hall?  I 
wish,  without  delay,  to  acknowledge  this  mark  of  his 
remembrance  and  regard,  and  am  not  sure  where  a  let 
ter  will  find  him.' 

"  Referring  to  this  precious  souvenir,  the  venerable 
Richard  'Henry  Dana  wrote  to  me  soon  after :  — 

" '  It  greatly  pleased  me  to  receive  a  few  lines  from 
you,  just  returned  from  that  glorious  old  city,  London, 
which,  it  is  sad  to  think,  I  shall  never  see.  .  .  .  And 
so  you  brought  over  Mr.  Coleridge's  inkstand  for  Mr. 
Longfellow.  I  am  almost  tempted  to  commit  burglary, 
or  even  murder  if  necessary,  to  possess  it.  Mr.  Long 
fellow  must  look  out  for  himself.' 


PAYMENT  FOE  EARLY  POEMS.  217 

"  This  inkstand,  I  may  mention,  had  been  used  for 
many  years  by  Coleridge,  and  also  for  nine  years  by 
Longfellow,  on  the  centre  of  whose  library-table  he 
pointed  it  out  to  my  daughter,  while  showing  her  his 
most  highly  prized  treasures.  Said  Mr.  Longfellow,  — 

" '  This  memento  of  the  poet  recalls  to  my  recollection 
that  Theophilus  Parsons,  subsequently  eminent  in  Mas 
sachusetts  jurisprudence,  paid  me  for  a  dozen  of  my 
early  pieces,  that  appeared  in  his  United-States  Literary 
Gazette,  with  a  copy  of  Coleridge's  poems,  which  I 
still  have  in  my  possession.  Mr.  Bryant  contributed 
the  Forest  Hymn,  The  Old  Man's  Funeral,  and  many 
other  poems,  to  the  same  periodical,  and  thought 
he  was  well  paid  by  receiving  two  dollars  apiece,  —  a 
price,  by  the  way,  which  he  himself  placed  upon  the 
poems,  and  at  least  double  the  amount  of  my  honora 
rium.  Truly,  times  have  changed  with  us  litterateurs 
during  the  last  half-century.' 

uThe  year  following  (1873)  Mr.  Longfellow  writes:  — 

" '  It  was  only  a  day  or  two  ago,  that,  happening  to 
be  in  the  college  library,  I  found  the  volume  you  were 
kind  enough  to  send  me.  As  Mr.  Sibley  does  not 
undertake  to  distribute  the  parcels  sent  to  his  care, 
they  being  very  numerous,  one  sometimes  may  wait 
for  weeks  before  getting  his  own.  This  is  my  apology 
for  not  thanking  you  sooner  for  your  most  entertaining 
book;  but  it  has  come  safe,  at  last,  and  I  have  read  it 
with  great  interest.  ...  I  remember  very  well  the 
poem  of  "  Sukey,"  an  imitation  of  Halleck's  "  Fanny." 
It  was  written  by  William  Bicker  Walter,  a  contem 
porary  of  mine  at  Bowdoin  College,  who  died  young. 
You  will  find  an  account  of  it  and  its  author  in  the 
second  volume  of  Duyckinck's  American  Cyclopaedia.' 


218  HENEY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

"  Writing  in  April,  1875,  the  poet  says,  - — 
"'I  shall  be  most  happy  to  subscribe  to  the  S.  C. 
Hall  testimonial.  Please  let  me  know  the  average 
amount  of  subscription,  and  I  will  immediately  send 
you  mine.  Many  thanks  for  the  Gaelic  versions  of 
Suspiria  and  the  Psalm  of  Life.  They  are  indeed 
literary  curiosities.  ...  I  send  you  a  copy  of  the 
poem  you  mention  for  your  daughter,  which  please 
present  to  her,  with  my  kindest  regards.' 

"Mr.  Longfellow,  writing  in  1876,  remarks, — 
"  4I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  sending  me  the  proof- 
sheets  of  Mr.  Symington's  article  on  Freiligrath.  I 
return  a  portion  of  it,  with  a  few  corrections.  He  is 
wrong  in  attributing  to  me  any  translations  of  Frei- 
ligrath's  poems.  There  are  several  in  the  Poets  and 
Poetry  of  Europe,  which  probably  led  him  astray. 
Had  he,  however,  looked  at  the  table  of  contents,  he 
would  have  found  the  authors  or  sources  of  all  the 
translations.  If  you  are  writing  to  Mr.  Symington, 
please  set  this  matter  right.  ...  In  the  volumes  of  my 
Poems  of  Places,  devoted  to  Scotland,  you  will  find 
several  of  your  father's  compositions.' 

"At  our  last  meeting,  as  I  learn  from  a  little  memo 
randum-book,  he  alluded  to  the  death  of  Bryant  and 
Dana,  and  said,  4  The  years  are  thinning  us  out,  and 
we  old  graybeards  must  close  up  our  ranks.'  Pointing 
out  the  portraits  of  Emerson,  Hawthorne,  and  Stunner, 
which  hung  in  his  library,  he  said  of  them  and  of  his 
own  pictures,  that  some  of  the  photographs  were  ad 
mired,  and  remarked  that  they  '  rendered  justice  with 
out  mercy.'  A  fine  oil  portrait,  which  was  painted 
long  ago  by  Alexander,  had  been  engraved  for  some 


VISIT  FEOM  THE  DUKE   OF  ARGYLL.  219 

magazine.  He  preferred  it  and  some  other  early  coun 
terfeit  presentments  to  the  later  ones,  saying,  4  We  old 
gentlemen,  like  Irving,  generally  prefer  to  be  remem 
bered  as  we  were,  rather  than  as  we  are.'  He  dwelt 
at  considerable  length  and  with  undisguised  pleasure 
on  his  last  sojourn  in  Italy,  alluding  to  our  meetings  at 
Sorrento,  Naples,  and  elsewhere,  and  concluded  by  say 
ing,  4  Alas  !  I  shall  never  see  that  sunny  land  again.' 

"  Longfellow  spoke  of  some  mutual  friends  at  Nahant, 
from  which  place  he  had  recently  returned,  and  said, 
4  Yes,  I  have  had  two  months  of  delicious  idleness  at 
Nahant,  and  it  is  time  that  I  put  on  the  harness  again.' 
Alluding  to  Bryant  having  taken  up  the  translating 
of  Homer  at  seventy-two,  for  occupation  of  mind,  he 
remarked  that  he  'found  that  translating  was  like 
floating  with  the  tide.'  He  agreed  with  what  Bryant 
said  to  me,  that  old  men  should  keep  the  mind  occu 
pied,  to  preserve  it,  and  introduced  the  incident  of  the 
old  horse  who  fell  down  the  moment  that  he  stopped ! 
Showing  some  of  his  pictures,  he  particularly  dwelt  on 
Buchanan  Read's  famous  group  of  his  three  daughters, 
and  on  one  of  Copley's,  representing  two  of  Sir  Wil 
liam  Pepperell's  children,  the  style  of  which  the  poet 
thought  strongly  resembled  some  of  Gainsborough's 
paintings.  It  occupied  the  place  of  honor  in  his  recep- 
t  ion-room. 

"  The  poet  mentioned  an  agreeable  visit  that  he  had 
received  the  previous  summer  from  the  Duke  of  Argyll, 
and  expressed  admiration  for  him  as  a  man  of  ability 
and  as  a  member  of  the  literary  guild.  '  When  I  was 
in  England  the  last  time,'  said  Mr.  Longfellow,  4 1  lis 
tened  to  an  extremely  interesting  and  able  debate  be 
tween  the  Duke  and  Bishop  Wilberforce,  sometimes 


220  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

described  as  "  Soapy  Sam ; "  and  in  the  lower  house  I 
heard  a  warm  encounter  between  Disraeli  and  that  truly 
great  man,  Gladstone ; '  adding,  in  answer  to  my  in 
quiry,  '  Yes,  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  have  met  these 
political  rivals.' 

"  Having  been  intrusted  with  a  commission  from  an 
English  author,  who  wished  to  obtain  data  from  the 
poet  with  a  view  to  writing  his  life  for  a  series  then  in 
course  of  publication,1  Longfellow  said,  '  I  have  no  pos 
sible  objection  to  your  friend's  undertaking  a  memoir, 
if  he  deems  me  worthy  of  being  included  among  his 
biographies ;  but  for  me  to  sit  down,  and  prepare  mate 
rial  for  Mr.  Symington,  would  be  like  writing  my  auto 
biography.'  And  in  urging  him  to  be  present  during 
the  unveiling,  in  the  following  month,  of  the  Burns 
statue  in  the  Central  Park,  and  to  be  our  guest  at  that 
time,  he  said,  '  Unfortunately,  I  have  too  many  friends 
in  New  York,  and,  troubled  as  I  am  at  present  with 
neuralgia,  I  fear  the  excitement  and  bustle  would  be 
too  much  for  me.  No :  I  could  not  keep  quiet  there, 
and  I  trust  that  you  will  kindly  excuse  me  to  your 
committee.  I  feel  sure  that  it  will  be  a  pleasant  occa 
sion  ;  and  I  promise  myself  much  pleasure  from  reading 
the  address  that  Mr.  Curtis  is  to  deliver,  for  Burns  is  a 
subject  in  which  I  am  always  interested.  Pray,  do  not 
feel  that  it  is  necessary  to  send  me  a  formal  invitation, 
as  I  cannot  possibly  come.' 

"  Before  our  departure  we  were  invited  to  sit  down 
in  the  carved  chair  made  from  the  c  spreading  chestnut- 
tree,'  presented  to  the  poet  by  the  school-children  of 
Cambridge,  and  shown  many  other  objects  of  interest, 

1  Biographies  of  Bryant,  Lover,  Moore,  and  Wordsworth.  By  An 
drew  J.  Symington,  F.R.S. 


ORIGIN   OF  A    SONNET.  221 

including  the  old  clock  on  the  stairs  and  the  pen  re 
ceived  from  4  beautiful  Helen  of  Maine,'  with  its  4  iron 
link  from  the  chain  of  Bonnivard,'  4  its  wood  from  the 
frigate's  mast '  that  wrote  on  4  the  sky  the  song  of  the 
sea  and  the  blast,'  and  its  three  jewels  from  the  sands 
of  Ceylon,  the  mountains  of  Maine,  and  the  snows  of 
Siberia. 

44  We  parted  at  the  poet's  gate  on  that  sumry  Septem 
ber  morning,  never  to  meet  again ;  but  I  shall  always 
retain  the  remembrance  of  his  venerable  appearance, 
his  sweet  old-school  courtesy  of  manners,  and  of  the 
many  meetings  that  it  was  my  privilege  to  have  en 
joyed  with  the  best  loved  of  American  poets. 

*  Say  not  the  poet  dies  \ 

Though  in  the  dust  he  lies, 
He  cannot  forfeit  his  melodious  breath, 

Unsphered  by  envious  Death  \ 
Life  drops  the  voiceless  myriads  from  its  roll : 

Their  fate  he  cannot  share, 

Who,  in  the  enchanted  air, 

Sweet  with  the  lingering  strains  that  Echo  stole, 
Has  left  his  dearer  self,  the  music  of  his  soul  I '  " 

ORIGIN  OF  ONE  OF  HIS  SONNETS. 

Apphia  Howard,  writing  to  The  Providence  Star, 
of  how  one  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  famous  sonnets  came 
to  be  written,  says,  — 

"I  found  in  1864,  on  a  torn  scrap  of  The  Boston 
Saturday  Evening  Gazette,  a  description  of  a  burying- 
ground  in  Newport  News,  where  on  the  headboard  of  a 
soldier  might  be  read  the  words:  4A  Union  soldier 
mustered  out,'  and  this  was  the  only  inscription. 
Knowing  Mr.  Longfellow's  intense  patriotism  and  de- 


222  HENRY    WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

votion  to  the  Union,  I  thought  it  would  impress  him 
greatly.  After  carefully  pasting  the  broken  pieces  to 
gether  on  a  bit  of  cardboard,  I  sent  it  to  Mr.  Long 
fellow  by  Mr.  Greene,  who  did  not  think  Longfellow 
would  use  it,  for  he  declared  *  a  poet  could  not  write 
to  order.'  In  a  few  days  Mr.  Longfellow  acknowl 
edged  it  by  a  letter,  which  I  did  not  at  all  expect,  as 
follows :  '  In  the  writing  of  letters  more,  perhaps,  than 
in  any  thing  else>  Shakespeare's  words  are  true ;  and 

"  The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it." 

For  this  reason,  the  touching  incident  you  have  sent  me 
has  not  yet  shaped  itself  poetically  in  my  mind  as  I 
hope  it  some  day  will.  Meanwhile  I  thank  you  most 
sincerely  for  bringing  it  to  my  notice,  and  I  agree  with 
you  in  thinking  it  very  beautiful.'  After  a  while  it  did 
shape  itself  in  the  poet's  mind  into  the  form  of  the 
exquisite  sonnet  beginning,  — 

'  "  A  soldier  of  the  Union  mustered  out," 
Is  the  inscription  on  an  unknown  grave 
At  Newport  News,  beside  the  salt-sea  wave, 
Nameless  and  dateless."' 

SMALL  BOOKS. 

Mr.  Longfellow  once  said  to  J.  J.  Piatt,  "  People  like 
books  of  poems  which  they  can  read  through  at  a  sit 
ting.  The  publishers  insist  on  quantity,  but  I  have 
always  aimed  to  have  my  books  small." 

QUID   PRO   QUO. 

There  was  one  matter  in  which  Mr.  Longfellow  set 
a  fine  example  to  professional  men.  He  was  always 
extremely  scrupulous  not  to  receive  something  for 


AN  APOCHYPHAL  POEM.  223 

nothing,  That  is,  he  always  paid  for  books,  papers, 
and  other  things  which  some  authors  and  professional 
men  are  accustomed  to  get  gratis. 

HIS  AUTOGRAPH. 

As  many  persons  know,  he  was  perpetually  besieged 
for  his  autograph.  His  patience  never  failed.  He 
kept  in  advance  of  the  demand  a  large  number  of  his 
autographs  written  on  little  slips,  storing  them  away 
in  an  envelope  for  future  use.  These  slips  he  would 
paste  on  larger  slips  when  needed, 

RELATIONS   TO   PRINTERS. 

Mr.  Longfellow  never  exhibited  any  irritability  in  his 
relations  with  his  printers.  A  gentleman  connected 
with  the  University  Press,  where  most  of  Mr.  Long 
fellow's  works  were  printed,  has  stated  that  in  all  the 
years  of  his  business  relations  with  the  poet,  as  printer 
of  his  books  and  other  work,  he  never  heard  him  utter 
an  impatient  or  irritable  word. 

AN  APOCRYPHAL  POEM. 

A  ridiculous  poem  entitled  "  Mr.  Finney's  Turnip  " 
has  gone  the  rounds  of  the  newspapers,  together  with 
a  stoiy  as  to  its  origin.  The  poem  and  the  story  carry 
within  themselves  their  own  refutation ;  but  it  may  be 
well  to  state  that  Mr.  Longfellow  himself  said  that  both 
the  story  and  the  poem  were  unautheritic. 

THE  POET'S  LOVE  OF  BELLS. 

Mr,  Longfellow's  exquisite  poems  on  bells  show  his 
love  for  them.  Once  Mr.  Elbridge  H.  Goss  sent  him  an 
article  on  bells.  Mr.  Longfellow's  fancy  immediately 
took  fire  over  the  subject ;  and  he  encouraged  Mr.  Goss 


224          HENRY    WADSWOUTU   LONGFELLOW. 

to  make  an  elaborate  work,  wrote  to  publishers  about 
it,  and,  whenever  he  met  with  an  item  about  bells,  he 
would  call  Mr.  Goss's  attention  to  it,  and  manifested 
an  interest  throughout  the  progress  of  the  work. 

MAIDENHOOD. 

A  minister  once  delivered  a  sermon  which  had  a 
somewhat  novel  theme  for  the  pulpit.  He  called  it 
"Expounding  Longfellow's  Poem  entitled  Maiden 
hood."  He  read  the  poem  through,  and  then  read  it 
again  in  portions,  enlarging  on  the  thoughts  in  each  part, 
and  drawing  many  useful  life-lessons  from  the  verses. 
But  the  most  noteworthy  thing  in  the  sermon  was  the 
narration  of  the  circumstance  which  gave  rise  to  it. 
The  preacher  told  a  story  of  a  poor  woman  living  in  a 
lonely  cabin  in  a  sterile  portion  of  the  Northwest,  to 
whom  a  friend  of  his  had  sent  illustrated  papers.  From 
these  the  woman  had  cut  the  pictures,  and  papered  the 
walls  of  her  cabin  with  them ;  and  an  illustration  of 
Longfellow's  4  Maidenhood,'  with  the  poem  underneath 
it,  she  had  placed  directly  over  her  work-table.  There, 
as  she  stood  at  her  bread-making  or  ironing,  day  after 
day,  she  gazed  at  the  picture  and  read  the  poem,  till,  by 
long  brooding  on  it,  she  understood  it,  absorbed  it, 
as  few  people  appropriate  the  things  they  read.  When 
the  friend  who  had  sent  the  papers  visited  her  after  a 
time,  he,  himself  a  man  of  letters,  stood  amazed  and 
humbled  while  she  talked  to  him  artlessly  about  the 
poem,  expounded  to  him  its  interior  meaning,  and  ex 
pressed  the  thoughts  she  had  drawn  from  it.  The 
preacher  said  it  was  an  instance  of  that  benign  compen 
sation  by  which  those  who  have  little  may  draw  the 
more  from  that  little,  so  that  one  cup  deeply  drained 


LADY    UAKDY'S    REMINISCENCES.  225 

may  yield  more  of  life's  elixir  than  many  that  are 
sipped.  Altogether,  it  shows  how  a  poet  may  be  a 
preacher,  both  from  a  pulpit  and  from  a  cabin-wall, 
sweetening  the  lowliest  life  as  well  as  enchanting  the 
highest. 

NAHANT. 

Lady  Duff  us  Hardy,  in  the  last  pages  of  her  work, 
entitled  Through  Cities  and  Prairie  Lands,  gives  a 
slight  and  airy,  but  pretty  picture  of  the  poet  at  his 
seaside  cottage  in  Nahant  (about  1881)  :  — 

"  After  shaking  hands,  and  exchanging  the  usual 
greetings,  he  presented  us  to  his  two  brothers-in-law, 
who  reside  with  him.  The  household  was  not  entirely 
masculine,  however :  the  poet's  two  daughters  were 
out  in  their  yacht  enjoying  a  sail ;  the  one  is  married, 
and,  with  her  little  child,  is  only  on  a  visit ;  the  other, 
a  very  charming  young  lady,  lives  at  home  with  her 
father.  We  went  through  the  house,  and  sat  in  the 
back  veranda.  A  tempting-looking  hammock  swung 
there ;  and  wild  roses  climbed  up  the  lattice-work,  and 
nodded  their  odorous  heads  at  us,  and  showered  their 
pink  petals  at  our  feet.  The  poet  gathered  us  a  bunch 
of  the  fairest  blossoms :  they  lie  faded  and  scentless 
in  my  album  to-day,  but  the  memory  of  that  July 
afternoon  at  Nahant  is  fresh  and  green  still.  .  .  .  We 
sat  there  chatting  in  a  pleasant  way  of  the  Old  World 
and  the  New.  .  .  .  Mr.  Longfellow  is  no  egotist:  he 
evidently  does  not  care  to  talk  of  himself  or  his  work. 
He  is  full  of  that  modesty  which  generally  character 
izes  great  genius.  .  .  .  The  meal,  gastronomically  con 
sidered,  was  on  strictly  gastronomical  principles  :  we 
sipped  the  vintage  of  Champagne  while  we  enjoyed 

the  pork  and  beans  of  Boston,  and  washed  down  oorn- 
15 


226  HENRY    WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

cobs  and  hominy  with  mineral  waters  of  Germany." 
Probably  very  few  of  Lady  Hardy's  British  readers 
understand  that  in  speaking  here  of  corn-cobs,  she  re 
fers  to  that  strictly  aboriginal  prandial  custom,  so  rife 
amongst  us,  of  eating  green  Indian  corn  from  the  cob. 

LONGFELLOW  AT  VESUVIUS. 

A  correspondent  of  The  London  Times  for  March 
28,  1882,  gives  some  crude  although  interesting  im 
pressions  derived  from  a  single  day's  intercourse  with 
our  American  Chaucer  at  Naples  and  Vesuvius.  They 
struck  up  an  acquaintanceship  at  a  table-d'hote,  and 
agreed  to  ascend  Vesuvius  together,  in  company  with 
three  vivacious  young  ladies  from  Boston.  The  vehi 
cles  were  open  carriages.  Mr.  Longfellow  was  in  his 
happiest  vein,  and  talked  incessantly.  Our  somewhat 
pert  tourist  may  now  speak  for  himself :  — 

"In  Mr.  Longfellow  I  could  see  no  difference  be 
tween  the  poet  and  the  pleasant  elderly  gentleman 
who  was  discoursing  gayly  on  all  things  in  heaven  and 
earth ;  and,  as  I  listened,  a  sufficiently  obvious  reflec 
tion  was  forced  upon  me.  What  was  this  most  perfect 
product  of  American  civilization  but  a  serious,  severe 
—  I  had  almost  said  bigoted  —  conservative,  and  a 
most  fervent  Christian?  Longfellow's  talk  was  his 
poetry  rendered  into  flowing  prose.  I  conjured  up 
Paul  Flemming  in  '  Hyperion,'  and  at  length  mustered 
courage  to  ask,  '  Was  Paul  Flemming  a  character 
drawn  from  life  ? '  He  paused  a  full  half-minute,  then 
answered  exactly  in  the  following  words :  '  He  was 
what  I  thought  I  might  have  been  ;  but  I  never '  - 
He  shaded  his  face  with  one  hand,  and  did  not  complete 
the  sentence.  From  the  sadness  of  the  poet's  tone  I 


VISIT  TO    VESUVIUS.  227 

conjectured  that  there  was  some  implied  confession  of 
failure  in  his  reticence.  I  guessed  that  he  was  strug 
gling  between  the  natural  humility  of  a  religious  man 
and  the  unwillingness  of  a  well-bred  man  to  intrude 
the  sorrows  of  his  mind  upon  others.  Mr.  Longfellow 
was  right :  he  never  attained  to  those  cold  heights  on 
which  he  had  placed  the  creation  of  his  fancy;  he 
found  a  better  resting-place. 

"  All  three  persons  in  the  carriage,  the  Englishman 
and  the  two  ladies,  almost  simultaneously,  now  besought 
the  poet  to  recite  some  of  his  poetry,  which  he  -did. 
The  gentleman  then  asked  him  how  long  he  had  taken 
to  compose  The  Golden  Legend.  He  replied,  llt 
seems  easy,  doesn't  it?'  The  friend  replied,  that  he 
supposed  that,  after  he  had  thoroughly  saturated  his 
mind  with  mediaeval  lore,  the  composition  of  the  poem 
would  have  been  a  comparatively  easy  matter.  4  Well,' 
he  rejoined,  '  you  are  about  right.  The  first  draught  I 
did  in  four  weeks,  not  counting  the  Sundays  —  I  don't 
like  to  work  on  Sundays  —  not  even  to  write  a  hymn. 
But  I  spent  about  six  months  correcting  —  and  cutting 
down.'  The  dashes  in  this  little  speech  stand  for  the 
pauses  so  frequent  in  Mr.  Longfellow's  utterances,  — 
pauses  which  were  the  result  of  constant  introspection. 
One  fancied  the  poet  had  been  asking  his  conscience 
whether  he  had  been  telling  the  truth,  the  whole  truth, 
and  nothing  but  the  truth.  A  terribly  exact  man  in 
moral  dealings  with  himself, — afraid  even  of  an  in 
accuracy  which  might  possibly  cause  a  fellow-man  to 
make  a  mistake  twenty  years  after. 

"  We  lunched  at  a  small  inn  on  the  side  of  Vesuvius, 
where  the  wine,  by  the  way,  was  not  of  a  kind  to  fire 


228  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

a  poet's  fancy ;  after  this  we  went  to  sniff  and  sneeze, 
in  the  usual  way  of  tourists,  over  the  sulphurous  gases 
of  the  water,  suggesting  a  poem  on  Empedocles,  and 
wondering  what  rhymes  Longfellow  could  hammer  out 
for  the  name  of  this  '  young  man  with  the  indestructi 
ble  boots,'  as  the  poet  called  him  [because  his  sandal 
was  thrown  up  undestroyed  from  the  crater].  Our 
French  companion  was  busy  with  a  paradox  of  his  own 
as  to  Empedocles  having  been  a  young  shoemaker 
nobly  desirous  of  advertising  his  father's  shop  a  VAme- 
ricaine, — i.e.,  regardless  of  cost,  —  and  we  were  about 
to  descend  the  steeps  laughing  over  this  fancy,  when, 
to  our  considerable  dismay,  Mr.  Longfellow  expressed 
his  intention  of  spending  the  night  upon  the  mountain. 
Within  a  short  distance  of  the  crater,  then  only 
smouldering  with  occasional  unsavory  whiffs  and  puffs, 
stood  a  ruined  plank  shed,  used  in  fine  weather  by  a 
screaming  old  woman  who  sold  ornaments  made  of 
lava ;  and  this  place  it  was  that  the  poet  chose  for  his 
vigil.  Without  a  smile  on  his  face  he  said,  4 1  want  to 
gather  poetic  impressions.'  We  looked  becomingly 
serious,  and  only  begged  to  be  permitted  to  keep  watch 
with  him.  c  No,'  with  two  or  three  shakes  of  the 
head  ;  4 1  must  be  alone.' 

"  A  whispered  consultation  between  some  members  of 
the  party  followed.  '  He  is  quite  in  earnest,  and  must 
do  as  he  pleases,'  said  a  brother  of  the  fair  Bostonians ; 
and  he  added  that  there  was  no  danger  just  then  of 
the  greatest  of  American  poets  meeting  with  the  same 
fate  as  the  younger  Pliny.  '  But  the  brigands  ? '  sug 
gested  the  Frenchman.  4  Dear  me  !  he  will  catch  such 
a  dreadful  cold,'  chimed  in  one  of  the  ladies.  Finally 
we  decided  to  leave  the  poet  to  his  reveries,  after  order- 


A    CALL   FROM  RURAL   PEOPLE.  229 

ing  a  Maltese  courier  to  stand  sentinel,  unobserved, 
within  hailing  distance.  It  is  probable  that  this  courier 
fulfilled  at  least  the  half  of  his  duties  faithfully,  for  his 
presence  was  certainly  never  noticed  by  Mr.  Longfellow. 
The  author  of  Excelsior  turned  up  in  the  morning, 
looking  none  the  worse  for  his  night's  frolic  with  the 
ghosts  of  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii ;  but  he  persist 
ently  parried  every  question  put  to  him  as  to  whether 
he  had  found  'inspiration.'  All  he  would  say  was, 
that,  on  coming  down  from  the  mountain,  he  had  been 
requested  by  a  gendarme  to  exhibit  his  passport,  and, 
being  unable  to  produce  this  document,  had  been  nearly 
marched  off  to  the  police-station.  4 1  purchased  my  lib 
erty  for  two  lire,'  he  remarked  smiling :  c  the  price  of 
that  commodity  has  decreased  since  Cceur  de  Lion's 
time.' " 

BASS'S   PALE   ALE. 

At  a  dinner-party  in  London,  some  one  asked  Mr. 
Longfellow  what  he  had  been  most  impressed  with  in 
England.  "  Bass's  pale  ale,"  he  replied.  Thereupon 
some  one  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table  perpetrated  an 
execrable  pun  by  saying  in  a  deep  bass  voice,  "  A  good 
joke,  that ! " 

A  RURAL  PARTY  VISIT  CRAIGIE  HOUSE. 

One  day  some  people  from  way  down  in  Maine 
called  at  Mr.  Longfellow's,  and  said  they  would  like 
to  see  "  Washington's  house."  The  host  good-naturedly 
acted  as  their  cicerone,  showing  them  over  the  various 
rooms,  and  explaining  matters  as  he  went  along.  When 
they  reached  the  dining-room,  one  of  them  said,  "  And 
so  Washington  sot  in  this  room,  did  he  ?  "  —  "Yes."  — 
"  And  who  lives  here  now  ?  "  —  "  I  do,  and  my  name 


230     HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

is   Longfellow."   -  "  Longfeller !   Longfeller !     Air  you 
any  relation  of  the    Machias   Longfeller s  ?  " 

BYFIELD. 

Mr.  Longfellow  had  never  seen  the  old  family  home 
stead  at  Byfield,  Mass.,  until  about  the  year  1873,  when 
he  visited  it  in  company  with  Charles  Sumner.  They 
drove  to  Amesbury,  and  called  on  the  poet  Whittier ; 
thence  to  Newburyport,  where  they  took  the  cars  for 
Nahant.  While  visiting  Indian  Hill,  near  Byfield,  they 
planted  an  oak-tree. 

An  exquisite  story  is  told  of  this  visit  to  Byfield. 
The  Longfellows  there  are  long-fellows  indeed,  and 
heavily-built  into  the  bargain.  Mr.  Longfellow  felt  the 
difference  between  his  size  and  theirs,  and  remarked  to 
one  of  them,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "  It  seems  to 
me  that  our  branch  of  the  family  is  sadly  degenerat- 
ing." 

THE  POET'S  VIGOROUS  OLD  AGE. 

Mr.  Longfellow  in  his  seventy-sixth  year  was  said 
to  be  the  only  poet  whose  productions,  in  his  old  age, 
were  fully  equal  to  those  written  in  the  days  of  his 
prime. 

THOROUGHNESS  OF  PREPARATION. 

"I  had  the  fever  a  long  time  burning  in  my  own 
brain,"  said  Mr.  Longfellow,  "  before  I  let  my  hero  take 
it.  '  Evangeline '  is  so  easy  for  you  to  read,  because 
it  was  so  hard  for  me  to  write." 

LONGFELLOW'S  BIRTHPLACE. 

The  house  in  which  Longfellow  was  born  in  Portland 
is  now  used  as  a  tenement-house.  One  day  a  school- 


PORTRAITS.  231 

mistress  in  one  of  the  schools  in  Portland  asked  the 
scholars  if  any  one  of  them  could  tell  her  where  the 
poet  Longfellow  was  born.  After  considerable  cogita 
tion,  a  little  boy  shouted  out,  "  I  know,  —  in  Patsy 
Connor's  bedroom ! " 

PORTRAITS  BY  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 

One  of  the  best  likenesses  of  Mr.  Longfellow  was 
painted  by  Read,  and  now  hangs  in  the  poet's  library. 
The  famous  group  of  the  three  daughters  of  Longfel 
low  was  also  painted  by  Read.  One  of  the  daughters 
was  so  depicted  that  she  seemed  to  be  without  arms. 
It  is  well  known  that  there  was  a  widely  spread  belief 
among  people  that  the  daughter  was  actually  born 
without  arms.  The  poet  Lowell  was  one  day  riding 
up  Brattle  Street,  Cambridge,  in  a  horse-car,  when  he 
overheard  one  woman  telling  another,  with  an  air  of  the 
most  solemn  conviction,  the  story  of  the  armless  child. 
Mr.  Lowell  was  unable  to  refrain  from  the  attempt  to 
undeceive  her,  and  said,  "  My  dear  madam,  I  assure 
you  that  you  are  mistaken.  I  am  an  intimate  friend 
of  the  family,  and  I  know  that  the  facts  are  not  as  you 
say."  The  woman  drew  herself  up  with  an  injured 
look,  and  replied,  "  I  have  it,  sir,  from  a  lady  who  got 
it  from  a  member  of  the  family !  "  When  the  picture 
of  the  children  was  engraved,  Mr.  Longfellow  received 
many  letters  asking  if  it  were  true  that  one  of  his 
daughters  had  been  born  without  arms. 

PORTRAIT  BY  WYATT  EATON. 

In  the  November  (1878)  number  of  Scribner's 
Monthly  was  published  Wyatt  Eaton's  portrait  of 
Longfellow  engraved  on  wood  for  that  magazine. 


232  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Opposite  to  the  portrait  is  the  following  verse,  in  fac 
simile  of  the  poet's  handwriting  :  — 

All  are  architects  of  Fate 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time, 
Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 

Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

The  handwriting  of  this  stanza,  written  Sept.  20, 
1878,  is  as  clear  and  firm  as  if  it  had  been  written  by 
a  youth  of  twenty. 

ANECDOTE   OF   LORD   HOUGHTON. 

"  Lord  Houghton,  when  in  this  country,  was  delight 
ed,  but  somewhat  surprised,  to  hear  a  gentleman  at  a 
social  gathering  quoting  something  from  his  own  favor 
ite  Keats ;  but  no  American  would  be  surprised  to 
hear  Longfellow  quoted  anywhere  in  the  world,"  says 
a  writer  in  The  Philadelphia  Ledger  and  Transcript. 

HIS  WALKS. 

One  who  knew  Longfellow  says  that  in  the  early 
days  of  his  Cambridge  life  it  was  "  a  pleasant  sight  to 
see  Longfellow  out  walking  with  his  children,  always 
with  his  stately,  calm,  and  noble  bearing,  though  bend 
ing  to  their  slightest  word,  and  seeming  to  take  great 
delight  in  their  company.  Before  the  country  west  of 
his  mansion  was  cut  up  by  cross-streets  and  built  upon, 
it  was  customary  to  see  him,  on  pleasant  days,  in  the 
winding  lanes  leading  to  Fresh  Pond,  or  strolling  over 
the  hills." 

When  Professor  Longfellow  came  into  possession  of 
Craigie  House,  there  were  scarcely  any  houses  on  the 
south  side  of  Brattle  Street,  and  what  is  now  Sparks 
Street  was  then  a  winding  grassy  way,  called  Vassal 
Lane. 


VISIT   TO  ENGLAND.  233 


INCIDENT   IN  ENGLAND. 

In  a  letter  by  Hon.  Robert  C.  Winthrop,  read  before 
the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society,  after  the  death 
of  Longfellow,  the  following  pleasant  little  incident 
was  mentioned :  "  The  last  time  he  was  in  Europe  I 
was  there  with  him,  and  I  was  a  witness  to  not  a  few 
of  the  honors  which  he  received  from  high  and  low.  I 
remember  particularly  that  when  we  were  coming  away 
from  the  House  of  Lords  together,  where  we  had  been 
hearing  a  fine  speech  from  his  friend  the  Duke  of  Ar 
gyll,  a  group  of  the  common  people  gathered  around 
our  carriage,  calling  him  by  name,  begging  to  touch  his 
hand,  and  at  least  one  of  them  reciting  aloud  one  of  his 
most  familiar  poems." 

HIS   LATER  YEARS. 

Professor  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  in  his  remarks  at  the 
meeting  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society,  has 
spoken  feelingly  of  the  last  years  of  Longfellow :  — 

"  Life  was  fair  to  him  almost  to  its  end.  On  his 
seventy-fourth  birthday,  a  little  more  than  a  year  ago, 
with  his  family  and  a  few  friends  round  his  dinner- 
table,  he  said,  '  There  seems  to  me  a  mistake  in  the 
order  of  the  years :  I  can  hardly  believe  that  the  four 
should  not  precede  the  seven.'  But  in  the  year  that 
followed  he  experienced  the  pains  and  languor  and 
weariness  of  age.  There  was  no  complaint :  the  sweet 
ness  of  his  nature  was  invincible. 

"  On  one  of  the  last  times  that  I  saw  him,  as  I 
entered  his  familiar  study  on  a  beautiful  afternoon  of 
this  past  winter  (1881-82),  I  said  to  him,  c  I  hope  this 
is  a  good  day  for  you.'  He  replied,  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  4Ah,  there  are  no  good  days  now  ! ' ' 


234  HENRY    WADSWOETU  LONGFELLOW. 


STATUE  TO  LONGFELLOW  IN  CAMBRIDGE. 

A  few  days  after  Mr.  Longfellow's  death,  Mr.  Francis 
Brown  Gilman,  in  conversation  with  his  kinsman,  Mr. 
Arthur  Gilman  of  Cambridge,  suggested  the  propriety 
of  purchasing  the  open  ground  in  front  of  the  Long 
fellow  mansion,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  and 
erecting  on  it  a  statue  to  the  "  First  Citizen  "  of  Cam 
bridge.  Mr.  Arthur  Gilman  thereupon  brought  the 
matter  before  the  public  in  a  communication  to  The 
Boston  Daily  Advertiser,  and  also  called  at  his  house 
a  meeting  of  friends  and  neighbors  of  the  poet.  At 
this  meeting  a  committee  was  appointed,  which  drew 
up  a  constitution  for  the  "  Longfellow  Memorial  Asso 
ciation."  The  constitution  was  adopted  at  a  meeting 
held  Thursday,  April  13,  1882. 

The  object  of  the  Association,  as  set  forth  in  the 
constitution,  is  to  provide  "  suitable  memorials  to  the 
late  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW,  and  to  ar 
range  for  their  care  and  preservation."  The  immediate 
object  is  to  purchase  of  the  Longfellow  heirs  the  lot 
that  has  been  mentioned,  and  erect  on  it  the  statue  of 
Longfellow.  The  owners  have  already  signified  their 
willingness  to  part  with  the  land.  As  soon  as  the 
officers  of  the  Association  have  been  elected,  subscrip 
tion-books  will  be  opened.  "  All  persons  who  con 
tribute  to  the  funds  of  the  Association  the  sum  of  one 
dollar  or  more  at  one  time  shall  become  honorary  mem 
bers."  The  annual  meeting  for  the  election  of  officers 
is  to  be  held  on  Longfellow's  birthday,  the  27th  of 
February.  The  active  members  are  all  either  promi 
nent  in  the  municipal  and  social  life  of  the  city,  or  are 
eminent  in  some  department  of  art  or  science.  It  is 


SAMUEL    WARD'S  REMINISCENCES.  235 

intended  to  raise  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  sub 
scriptions  of  any  amount,  no  matter  how  small,  from 
any  person  in  the  Old  World  or  the  New,  who  may 
wish  to  contribute,  as  it  is  intended  that  the  movement 
shall  be  strictly  popular.  James  Russell  Lowell  was 
chosen  first  president  of  the  Association,  and  Dr. 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  President  Charles  William 
Eliot,  John  G.  Whittier,  Charles  Deane,  and  Alex 
ander  Agassiz,  vice-presidents. 

SAMUEL  WARD'S  REMINISCENCES. 

Mr.  Samuel  Ward  first  became  acquainted  with  Long 
fellow  in  Europe.  Their  friendship  was  very  intimate. 
He  relates  that  the  poet  on  Thanksgiving  Day  in  1881 
expressed  to  him  great  admiration  for  George  Cable's 
"  Grandissimes,"  and  hoped  that  it  would  be  the  type 
of  a  new  style  of  American  novels.  It  was  due  to  Mr. 
Ward  that  the  translation  of  "  The  Children  of  the 
Lord's  Supper "  was  made.  Baron  Nordin,  Swedish 
Minister  to  Washington,  gave  him  the  poem,  and  he 
took  it  to  the  poet  in  Cambridge. 

SALE  OF  A  POEM. 

There  was  some  doubt  in  the  minds  of  the  poet's 
Boston  friends  as  to  the  value  of  "  The  Skeleton  in 
Armor."  Mr.  Ward  says,  "  I  took  the  poem,  and  read 
it  aloud  with  a  certain  fervor  inspired  by  its  heroic 
measure,  and  I  think  that  his  own  opinion  was  con 
firmed  by  my  enthusiastic  rendering  of  the  part.  I 
carried  it  to  New  York,  where,  having  shown  it  to  the 
poet  Halleck,  and  obtained  a  certificate  from  him  of  its 
surpassing  lyric  excellence,  I  sold  it  to  Lewis  Gaylord 
Clarke  of  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  for  fifty  dollars, 


236  HENEY   WADSWOBTH  LONGFELLOW. 

a  large  price  in  those  days  for  any  poetical  produc 
tion." 

THE  HANGING  OF  THE  CRANE. 

Mr.  Ward  says,  "  About  ten  years  ago,  when  paying 
my  usual  Christmas  visit,  he  read  to  me  '  The  Hanging 
of  the  Crane,'  two  hundred  lines,  for  which  Robert 
Bonner  of  '  The  New  York  Ledger  '  paid  me  four  thou 
sand  dollars,  having  offered  one  thousand  when  I  men 
tioned  the  existence  of  the  poem.  Mr.  Longfellow 
declined  that  price,  when  the  owner  of  'Dexter'  — 
whom  the  poet,  in  his  letters  to  me,  called  '  Diomed, 
the  tamer  of  horses '-—quadrupled  his  bid,  and  ob 
tained  the  prize." 

LONGFELLOW  IN  HEIDELBERG. 

Mr.  Ward  tells  of  calls  he  made  upon  Longfellow  in 
Heidelberg  in  the  spring  of  1836.  "  Longfellow  had 
led  a  secluded  life  since  the  death  of  his  young  wife,  in 
Holland,  the  previous  summer.  My  budget  of  rattling 
talk  was,  therefore,  a  cheering  and  interesting  peep  into 
the  social  world  from  which  his  mourning  had  so  long 
excluded  him.  .  .  .  The  following  day  I  visited  him  at 
his  rooms,  which  were  strewn  with  books,  in  a  house  on 
the  main  street,  embracing  a  view  of  the  castle.  He 
was  ready  for  another  of  my  Sindbad  narratives  ;  and  in 
later  years  more  than  once  recalled,  with  a  smile,  the 
fact  of  my  taking  off  my  coat,  as  his  room  was  warmed 
by  a  German  stove,  to  talk  more  freely  in  my  shirt 
sleeves.  With  me  it  was  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight, 
which  has  burned  with  the  steady  light  of  a  Jewish 
tabernacle  ever  since." 


THE  SKELETON  IN  AEMOE.  237 


ONE  OF  THE  POET'S  LATEST  LETTERS. 

The  following  letter,  addressed  to  Mr.  Ward,  is  one 
of  the  last  Mr.  Longfellow  ever  wrote.  It  appeared  in 
The  North  American  Review  for  May,  1882. 

CAMBRIDGE,  Jan.  23,  1882. 

MY  DEAR  UNCLE  SAM,  —  "Whom  the  gods  love  die 
young,"  because  they  never  grow  old,  though  they  may  live 
to  fourscore  years  and  upward. 

So  say  I,  whenever  I  read  your  graceful  and  sportive  fan 
cies  in  the  papers  you  send  me,  or  in  those  I  send  you. 

I  am  now  waiting  for  the  last,  announced  in  your  letter  of 
yesterday,  not  yet  arrived. 

Pardon  my  not  writing  sooner  and  oftener.  My  day  is 
very  short ;  as  I  get  up  late,  and  go  to  bed  early,  —  a  kind  of 
Arctic  winter's  day,  when  the  sun  is  above  the  horizon  for  a 
few  hours  only. 

Yes,  the  "  Hermes  "  went  into  The  Century. 

I  come  back  to  where  I  began,  the  perpetual  youth  of 
some  people.  You  remember  the  anecdote  of  Ducis.  When 
somebody  said  of  him,  "  11  esl  tombe  en  etifance^  a  friend 
replied,  "  Non,  il  est  rentrc  en  jeunesse."  That  is  the  polite 
way  of  putting  things.  But,  old  or  young, 
Always  yours, 

H.  W.  L. 

THE   SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 

Of  "  The  Skeleton  in  Armor  "  Mr.  Longfellow  says, 
"  This  ballad  was  suggested  to  me  while  riding  on  the 
seashore  at  Newport.  A  year  or  two  previous,  a  skel 
eton  had  been  dug  up  at  Fall  River,  clad  in  broken 
and  corroded  armor  ;  and  the  idea  occurred  to  me  of 
connecting  it  with  the  Round  Tower  at  Newport,  gen 
erally  known  hitherto  as  the  Old  Windmill,  though 


238  HENRY   WADSWORTU  LONGFELLOW. 

now  claimed  by  the  Danes  as  a  work  of  their  early 
ancestors."  Mr.  Longfellow  rode  to  see  the  exhumed 
skeleton,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe  and 
others.  The  poet  urged  Mrs.  Howe  to  write  a  poem 
on  the  subject,  but  fate  ordered  it  that  the  honor 
should  fall  to  him.  The  ballad  has  been  set  to  very 
spirited  music,  and  has  also  furnished  themes  for  the 
pencil  of  the  artist,  the  Old  Round  Tower  proving 
especially  attractive  to  the  artistic  eye. 

TAX-BILL   OF  WILLIAM   LONGFELLOW. 

The  following  note,  received  from  Mr.  H.  F.  Long 
fellow,  explains  itself :  — 

APRIL  18,  1882. 
MR.  W.  S.  KENNEDY. 

My  dear  Sir,  —  I  have  in  my  possession  a  tax-bill  of 
William  Longfellow  (the  emigrant  ancestor),  and  send  you 
the  following  copy  :  — 

Mr.  WILLIAM  LONGFELOW 

his  rates  in  the  year  1686. 

1—  2  —  9 
Credit  0  —  15  —  0 

JOSEPH  ILSLEY  [then  Constable  for  Newburyl. 

Yours  very  truly, 

HOKACE  FAIRBANKS  LONGFELLOW. 

BYFIELD,  MASS. 

SOUVENIR  OF  LONGFELLOW. 

A  most  valuable  and  interesting  memento  of  the 
dead  poet,  which  we  have  been  permitted  to  examine, 
is  owned  by  a  gentleman  of  Boston.  It  consists  of 
the  poem  of  Excelsior,  in  the  poet's  own  handwriting, 
and  signed  by  him.  This  is  preceded  by  a  two-page 
autographic  letter  from  Mr.  Longfellow,  explaining  how 


OLD   ROUND  TOWER,  NEWPORT. 


240  HENRY   WADSW01UH  LONGFELLOW. 

he  came  to  select  the  title  for  the  poem  ;  another  auto 
graph  letter  is  to  the  present  owner,  forwarding  the 
lines  to  him.  A  series  of  twenty-five  illustrations  by 
various  artists,  which  are  inlaid  to  quarto  size,  illustrate 
the  poem.  This  is  followed  by  a  curious  parody  in  Chi 
nese  "  pigeon  English,"  with  four  illustrations. 

In  addition  to  this,  in  the  same  volume,  is  an  extract 
from  The  Bridge  :  — 

"  I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight," 

also  verses  in  the  poet's  handwriting,  and  signed  by 
him  in  1845,  with  a  proof  illustration  of  the  same ; 
then  comes  an  autographic  letter  of  Jared  Sparks  to  a 
friend,  announcing  that  Mr.  Longfellow  is  preparing 
another  poem.  "It  relates,"  says  the  writer,  "to  the 
Plymouth  Pilgrims ;  and  it  contains  a  romantic  story 
about  Miles  Standish,  the  military  champion  of  the  Pil 
grim  band."  This  is  followed  by  an  autographic  letter 
of  Longfellow's  respecting  the  writing  and  publishing 
of  Miles  Standish,  and  proof  illustrations  of  the  poem. 
A  notable  autographic  memento  in  this  unique  volume 
is  a  letter  from  Charles  Dickens  to  Moxon,  the  London 
publisher,  which  runs  as  follows :  — 

DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE, 

Tuesday,  Oct.  17,  1842. 

My  DEAR  SIR,  —  Mr.  Longfellow,  the  best  of  American 
poets  (as  I  have  no  doubt  you  know) ,  is  staying  with  me, 
and  wishes  to  see  you  on  the  subject  of  republishing  his 
verses. 

We  breakfast  with  Mr.  Rogers  to-morrow  morning,  and 
will  call  upon  you,  if  convenient,  when  we  leave  his  house. 
Faithfully  yours, 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 
EDWARD  MOXON,  Esq. 


POETIC  INSPIRATION.  241 

Fourteen  different  portraits  of  the  poet,  from  the 
earliest  to  the  latest  taken,  principally  proof  impres 
sions  of  the  engravings,  are  contained  in  the  work, 
which  is  further  illustrated  by  fine  engravings  of  the 
poet's  residence  in  Cambridge,  both  exterior  and  inte 
rior  views,  and  also  of  the  Longfellow  mansion  at  Port 
land,  Maine.  Other  engravings  referring  directly  to 
the  poet  and  his  career,  and  others  of  his  letters,  —  one 
referring  to  the  Wadsworth  coat-of-arms,  —  are  con 
tained  in  this  collection,  which  the  owner  proposes  to 
have  placed  in  a  sumptuous  binding,  and  which,  as  a 
whole,  is  certainly  a  unique  as  well  as  an  exceedingly 
valuable  memento.  —  Boston  Advertiser. 

POETIC  INSPIRATION. 

"  Mr.  Longfellow  had  a  peculiar  gift  for  ingratiating 
himself  into  the  good-will  of  children,  and  always 
showed  a  keen  appreciation  of  their  bright  speeches. 
He  was  one  day  walking  in  the  garden  with  a  little 
maiden  of  five  years  who  was  fond  of  poetry,  and  occa 
sionally  "made  up  some  "  herself.  "I,  too,  am  fond  of 
poetry,"  he  said  to  her.  "  Suppose  you  give  me  a  little 
of  yours  this  beautiful  morning  ?  "  —  "  Think,"  cried  he 
afterward  to  a  friend,  who  tells  the  story  in  The  Boston 
Courier,  throwing  up  his  hands,  his  eyes  sparkling  with 
merriment,  "  think  what  her  answer  was.  She  said, 
'  O  Mr.  Longfellow,  it  doesn't  always  come  when  you 
want  it ! '  Ah  me  !  how  true,  how  true  !  "  Several 
months  later  the  friend  and  the  little  girl  called  at  the 
poet's  home.  After  showing  his  little  friend  many 
things  of  interest  in  his  study,  and  especially  delighting 
himself  at  her  amazement  on  telling  her  he  "  supposed 
the  Ancient  Mariner  came  out  of  the  inkstand  upon 

16 


242  HEN  BY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

his  table  "  (it  once  belonged  to  Coleridge),  he  said  in 
a  low  tone,  as  if  thinking  aloud,  "It  doesn't  always 
come  when  you  want  it !  "  —  New  York  Tribune. 

HIS  AUTOGRAPH. 

A  friend  of  Mr.  Longfellow  writes :  — 

"  It  is  the  penalty  of  famous  men  to  be  pe  stered  for 
autographs.  Mr.  Longfellow  was  not  chaiy  of  his, 
when  properly  asked  for,  but  rather  took  it  as  an  evi 
dence  of  good-will,  and  complied  with  pleasure.  But 
knowing  how  annoyed  noted  men  are  by  the  profes 
sional  autograph-seekers,  who  make  a  business  of  beg 
ging  their  names  to  sell  for  a  consideration,  I  disliked 
very  much  to  ask  the  poet  for  a  bit  of  his  writing,  even 
to  gratify  a  friend  who  I  knew  would  value  it.  I 
noticed  that  he  would  take  the  book  home  I  wished 
him  to  write  in.  I  disliked  to  give  him  this  trouble, 
and  told  him  so :  but  he  said  it  was  no  trouble  at  all ; 
and  in  the  morning  he  would  come  down  with  it  as 
cheery  and  pleasant  as  if  I  had  done  him  a  favor  instead 
of  having  received  one. 

"  This  habit  of  writing  at  home  may  account  for  the 
uniform  appearance  of  his  autograph :  at  least  it  shows 
the  deliberate  care  with  which  he  did  every  thing,  even 
to  writing  his  name.  Sometimes  he  would  give  a  stanza 
from  the  poem  most  admired  in  the  book,  or  in  some 
way  show  his  genuine  good  feeling.  I  once  expressed 
my  delight  with  a  poem  he  had  written  about  a  locality 
I  was  familiar  with,  and  wished  he  could  give  me  a 
few  lines  of  it.  He  brought  me  the  whole  poem  care 
fully  written  out  on  the  broad  sheet  he  was  accustomed 
to  use  for  his  writing  (for  he  had  one  kind  of  paper 
for  his  pencil,  and  another  for  his  pen,  and  both  were 
of  the  usual  letter  size). 


AT  HOME.  243 

"  But  even  he  sometimes  rebelled  at  the  demand  for 
his  name.  People  would  apply  by  postal-card  for  his 
autograph,  not  reflecting,  that,  in  order  to  send  it,  he 
would  have  to  furnish  an  envelope  and  pay  postage. 
There  may  be  some  who  will  say  he  never  replied  to 
them  ;  but  I  believe  it  will  be  those  who  would  impose 
upon  him  in  this  way,  or  who,  at  least,  were  very 
thoughtless  and  inconsiderate,  and  those  whose  letters 
may  have  never  been  received  by  him." 

LONGFELLOW  AT  HOME. 

A  neighbor  of  the  poet  writes  to  The  New  York 
Independent  as  follows :  — 

"While  all  the  English-speaking  world  mourns  the 
departed  poet,  Cambridge,  the  community  in  which 
Mr.  Longfellow  lived,  groans  at  the  loss  of  the  man, 
the  friend,  the  neighbor,  the  most  honored,  and  the 
most  beloved.  I  will  respond  to  your  request  to  speak 
of  Mr.  Longfellow  in  his  ordinary  relations  as  a  mem 
ber  of  a  New  England  community.  I  speak  from  no 
greater  intimacy,  perhaps,  than  hundreds  of  his  neigh 
bors  enjoyed ;  but  thus,  it  may  be,  being  without  the 
partiality  of  special  friendship,  I  can  better  express  the 
general  sentiment  with  which  he  was  regarded. 

"  That  the  kind  of  appreciation  in  which  Mr.  Long 
fellow  was  held  here  may  be  better  understood,  it  may 
be  well  to  mention  some  of  the  social  characteristics  of 
'  Old  Cambridge,'  as  it  is  familiarly  called,  or  rather 
that  portion  of  it  in  which  Mr.  Longfellow  lived. 
Whether  from  Puritan  inheritance,  or  the  happy  influ 
ence  of  letters,  or  the  simple  tastes  and  modest  means 
of  the  scholars  who  have  given  tone  to  its  society,  or 
the  semi-rural  habits  encouraged  by  the  possession  of 


244  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

broad  grounds  and  extensive  gardens,  there  is  a  simpli 
city,  almost  homeliness,  in  the  social  life  of  Cambridge, 
not  ordinarily  attributed  to  the  New  England  metrop 
olis  of  letters.  There  is  not  only  a  pervading  kindli 
ness  within  what  might  be  esteemed  the  more  select 
circles,  but  a  freedom  and  friendliness  of  intercourse 
among  all  classes  of  the  community  seldom  seen  else 
where.  To  this  excellent  social  spirit  Mr.  Longfellow 
greatly  contributed ;  certainly  he  largely  partook  of  it. 
And  this  may  explain  how  he  became  so  closely  iden 
tified  with  all  classes  of  the  community  in  which  he 
lived,  and  how  he  gained  the  privilege  of  that  general 
appreciation  which  he  enjoyed. 

"  Hundreds  of  men  honored  him  who  knew  nothing  of 
him  as  a  poet.  The  first  notice  I  had  of  the  impending 
calamity  was  from  an  Irish  porter  in  an  office  in  Bos 
ton,  who  rushed  into  my  room  with  this  exclamation : 
4  It  is  on  the  bulletin-boards  that  our  dear  good  friend 
Mr.  Longfellow  is  dying.  I  have  worked  at  his  house, 
repairing  his  furnace,  many  a  day.  There  was  nobody 
like  him  in  all  Cambridge.'  On  the  way  home  in  the 
horse-cars,  the  fatal  end  being  then  publicly  known, 
men  and  women  talked  about  it  to  their  fellow-passen 
gers,  though  strangers,  as  they  are  wont  to  do  in  some 
great  public  calamity.  And  in  his  own  town  I  believe 
that  on  that  night  there  was  scarcely  a  home  which  was 
not  pervaded  by  the  common  sorrow.  On  the  next 
morning  the  sentiment,  if  not  the  words,  was  uttered 
from  every  lip :  '  The  sun  of  Cambridge  is  extin 
guished.' 

"  The  sturdy  and  practical  men  of  Cambridge  liked 
Mr.  Longfellow  for  his  methodical  business  habits,  his 


LOVABLE   TRAITS.  245 

punctuality  in  his  engagements,  his  good  sense  in  his 
affairs,  his  interest  in  the  concerns  of  the  town,  and 
his  soundness  on  public  questions.  Though  he  rarely 
attended  political  meetings,  he  was  a  pronounced  Repub 
lican,  and  always  contributed  to  the  funds  required  for 
political  exigencies.  Though  never  engaging  in  con 
troversy,  he  took  care  that  his  political  sympathies 
should  be  known ;  and  while  the  people  of  his  town 
are  somewhat  conspicuous  for  their  erratic,  or,  as  they 
would  call  them,  independent  views  in  politics,  Mr. 
Longfellow,  with  his  practical  good  sense,  recognized 
the  necessity  of  parties  in  politics,  and  was  accustomed 
to  say,  '  I  vote  with  my  party.' 

"  The  people  of  Cambridge  delighted  in  Mr.  Long 
fellow's  loyalty  to  the  town  of  his  residence  and  its 
society.  They  could  not  fail  to  be  gratified  that  he  and 
his  family  did  not  seek  the  society  of  the  neighboring 
metropolis,  or  rather  usually  declined  its  solicitations, 
and  preferred  the  simple  and  familiar  ways  and  old 
friends  of  the  less  pretentious  suburban  community. 
Nothing  could  be  more  charming  than  the  apparently 
absolute  unconsciousness  of  distinction  which  pervaded 
the  intercourse  of  Mr.  Longfellow  and  his  family  with 
Cambridge  society. 

"  The  people  of  Cambridge  are  quite  justly  proud  of 
their  historic  monuments,  which,  with  the  growing 
greatness  of  the  West,  will  soon  be  nearly  all  left  us  of 
the  East  to  boast  of.  Under  any  circumstances,  they 
would  be  chiefly  proud  of  the  Craigie  mansion,  the 
headquarters  of  Washington  during  the  siege  of  Bos 
ton.  They  were  doubly  proud  that  this  mansion  should 
receive  a  new  glory  from  the  world's  poet  and  their 
friend.  They  became  accustomed  to  associate  him  with 


246  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

Washington :  at  least,  they  regarded  him  as  the  only 
one  worthy  of  being  Washington's  successor  in  that 
residence. 

"  I  know  the  peculiar  charm  of  his  language  in  talk 
ing  of  the  commonest  things ;  how,  in  speaking  of  the 
trees,  the  clouds,  or  the  weather,  he  would  express  some 
delicate  thought  or  quaint  conceit,  as  agreeable  as  un 
expected.  But  I  can  recall  but  a  few  of  these  expres 
sions,  and  these  too  trivial  to  be  preserved,  if  they  had 
not  fallen  from  him. 

"  My  first  impression  of  his  sweetness  I  gathered  some 
years  ago,  when  I  accidentally  overheard  him  in  con 
versation  with  Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell,  as  I  walked 
behind  them  on  Brattle  Street.  A  sweet  little  girl 
came  running  by  them  ;  and  I  heard  Mr.  Longfellow  say 
to  Mr.  Lowell,  c  I  like  little  girls  the  best,'  and  he  con 
tinued  :  — 

'  What  are  little  girls  made  of  ? 
Sugar  and  spice 
And  all  things  nice,  — 
That's  what  little  girls  are  made  of.' 

We  can  see  how  by  a  sort  of  instinct  all  the  little  girls 
in  the  land  are  repeating  the  verses  of  the  poet  who 
loved  them  so  well. 

"  Of  late  years  Mr.  Longfellow  has  gone  very  little  into 
general  society :  but  the  archery-parties  recently  given 
in  his  neighborhood  seemed  to  afford  him  especial  pleas 
ure  ;  and  we  have  several  beautiful  afternoons  to  remem 
ber  when  he  honored  the  Elm  wood  Archery  Grounds, 
and  gazed  upon  the  sport.  4  How  they  come  like  a  band 
of  young  braves  ! '  I  remember  hearing  him  say,  as  the 
young  men  returned  with  arrows  from  the  targets.  In 


THE  OLD   CIIESTNUT-TREE.  247 

the  most  ordinary  conversation  he  was  forever  dropping 
pearls ;  arid  I  recall  a  walk  on  the  Charles-river  Bridge, 
when,  as  the  breeze  from  the  river  swept  through  the 
commonplace  telegraph-wires,  he  called  them  '  an  seolian 
harp  hung  in  the  sky.' 

"  We  felt  the  loss  of  our  beloved  friend  the  more 
because  it  was  so  unexpected ;  for  although  his  health 
had  been  delicate  for  some  months,  there  was  no  serious 
apprehension  of  fatal  results.  His  bearing  was  so  erect, 
and  his  gait  so  light  and  springing,  he  was  so  genial,  so 
cheerful,  so  beautiful,  and  apparently  so  untouched  by 
old  age,  that  when  I  last  saw  him  and  talked  with  him, 
not  three  weeks  ago,  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  live 
many  years  longer,  the  most  cherished  possession  of  the 
old  town  he  loved  so  well.  The  legacy  he  has  left  is 
not  merely  his  divine  poems :  it  is  also  the  memory  of 
the  benign  presence  which  almost  consecrated  the  scenes 
among  which  he  dwelt." 

THE  OLD  CHESTNUT-TREE. 

Some  years  ago  the  "  village  smithy "  on  Brattle 
Street  was  removed,  and  a  dwelling-house  erected  in 
its  place.  To  make  room  for  the  house,  it  became 
necessary  to  lop  the  branches  of  the  famous  old  horse- 
chestnut.  The  tree  was  also  trimmed  from  the  street 
side,  and  had  become  so  unsightly  an  object,  that,  when 
the  order  came  from  the  City  Council  that  it  must  be 
cut  down,  Mr.  Longfellow,  although  loath  to  have  it 
fall,  yet  said  to  a  Cambridge  citizen,  that  it  might  as 
well  come  down  now,  for  its  beauty  was  forever  gone. 
A  friend  who  was  in  Cambridge  at  the  time  writes :  — 

"  Early  in  the  morning  the  choppers  were  at  it.  Like 
burning  sparks  from  the  anvil  the  chips  flew  in  every 


248  IIENBY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

direction  ;  and  soon  a  crash  was  heard,  and  the  cry 
went  up,  4  The  old  chestnut  is  down  ! '  The  word  ran 
from  lip  to  lip  ;  and  a  crowd  was  quickly  collected,  — 
all  rushing  out  from  house  arid  shop,  just  as  they  were, 
without  coat  or  hat,  and  bearing  off  some  fragment  as 
a  souvenir.  They  locked  like  ants  bearing  a  burden 
bigger  than  themselves.  But  some  city  officer  inter 
fered,  and  the  work  of  plunder  ceased. 

"  From  this  destruction  sprung  the  arm-chair  which 
the  children  of  Cambridge  presented  to  Longfellow,  — 
if  not  to  appease  the  manes  of  the  old  tree  which  had 
been  so  abused,  certainly  to  show  their  love  for  the 
good  old  poet  who  had  immortalized  it  by  his  verse. 
How  busy  the  children  were  making  their  little  collec 
tions  for  this  object !  It  was  the  talk  in  the  school  and 
in  the  street,  and  was  in  the  heart  and  mind  of  every 
body.  But  when  the  gift  came  it  was  a  genuine  sur 
prise  to  Longfellow,  —  not  that  he  had  not  heard  of 
what  was  doing,  but  it  came  with  such  an  enthusiastic 
outburst  of  feeling,  and  was  so  fine  a  piece  of  work, 
that  he  was  fairly  overcome,  and  conquered  in  the 
c  round  tower  of  his  heart.'  He  seemed  to  have  writ 
ten  the  poem  to  the  children,  in  acknowledgment  of 
their  gift,  with  great  spontaneity,  and  scarcely  a  change 
was  made  in  the  proof  of  it.  It  came  from  the  heart, 
and  went  to  the  heart ;  and  he  took  delight  in  having 
it  printed  to  distribute  among  the  school-children." 

A  PITEOUS  INCIDENT. 

Mr.  George  W.  Childs  of  Philadelphia,  who  several 
years  ago  entertained  the  poet  at  dinner  in  Rome,  re 
lates,  that,  while  they  were  walking  to  the  dining-room, 
on  the  way  through  the  corridor  of  the  hotel,  they 


GENTLENESS  AND   GRACE.  249 

passed  a  series  of  lighted  wax  candles  placed  in  can 
delabra  surrounded  by  flowers  ;  and  Longfellow  imme 
diately  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand,  and  begged  his 
companion  to  hasten  his  footsteps.  He  had  probably 
been  reminded  of  the  death  of  his  wife  by  burning. 

LONGFELLOW'S  GENTLENESS  AND  GRACE. 

Sydney  Chase  contributes  to  The  Washington  Post 
the  following  story  of  a  visit  to  the  poet :  — 

"Provided  with  a  letter  of  introduction,  I  entered 
the  gate  of  the  grounds,  which  is. ever  hospitably  open ; 
and  standing  on  the  piazza  was  the  gray-haired  poet 
himself.  He  advanced,  and  saluted  his  visitor  with  a 
gracious  courtesy  that  would  have  put  the  most  timid 
at  their  ease,  and  kept  the  most  presumptuous  in  check. 
He  has  an  artful  kindliness  and  a  beautiful  simplicity 
in  manner,  —  that  which  the  French  have  aptly  called 
the  politeness  of  the  heart. 

*  His  eyes  diffuse  a  venerable  grace, 
And  charity  itself  was  in  his  face.' 

There  is  something  about  him,  in  his  nice  observance 
of  the  small,  sweet  courtesies  of  life,  that  carries  one 
back  to  the  bygone  days  when  good-breeding  was  a 
study  and  politeness  an  art.  He  is  so  natural  and  un 
assuming  that  he  is  of  necessity  elegant  in  deportment, 
—  as  simplicity  is  the  last  form  of  elegance  to  be 
attained.  A  young  enthusiast  exclaimed,  after  seeing 
him,  'All  the  vulgar  and  pretentious  people  in  the 
world  ought  to  be  sent  to  see  Mr.  Longfellow,  to  learn 
how  to  behave.'  Mr.  Longfellow  himself  thus  defined 
the  law  of  politeness :  '  The  consciousness  of  being 
assured  of  one's  position  is  the  great  promoter  of  good 


250  HENRY   WADSWOBTH  LONGFELLOW. 

manners ;  and  this  explains  the  utter  absence  of  preten 
sion  in  English  people  of  rank,  —  there  is,  for  them,  no 
need  of  assertion.  They  can  afford  to  be  polite.'  He 
led  the  way  to  his  library,  a  sunny  corner  room,  and, 
wheeling  up  a  comfortable  chair  for  his  visitor,  seated 
himself  in  his  own  especial  chair. 

" '  Now,'  said  he  in  his  kindest  voice,  c  tell  me  what 
you  have  written.' 

"He  listened  with  an  admirable  attention  to  the 
story,  old,  but  always  interesting  to  a  veteran,  of  the 
struggles  of  a  literary  beginner.  Then  he  said  impress 
ively,  '  Always  write  your  best,'  —  repeating  it  with 
his  hand  upraised.  '  Remember,  your  best.  Keep  a 
scrap-book,  and  put  in  it  every  thing  you  write.  It  will 
be  of  great  service  to  you.' 

"His  visitor  mentioned  to  him  the  pleasant  lines 
in  which  his  lot  was  cast,  in  comparison  with  other 
literary  men,  noticeably  Sir  Walter  Scott,  —  that  he 
had  all 

That  which  should  accompany  old  age, 

As  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends.' 

" '  Yes,'  he  said, 4 1  feel  it,  —  I  feel  it  daily.'  When  he 
was  asked  as  to  the  number  of  visitors  who  came  to  pay 
him  their  respects,  he  said,  c  They  come  every  day  from 
all  parts  of  the  country.'  He  might  have  added  from  all 
parts  of  the  world. 

"  He  spoke  of  Thackeray  with  admiration.  l  He  was 
so  great,  —  so  honest  a  writer.'  In  speaking  of  the 
saints  whom  the  Roman  Catholics  revere,  he  said, '  I,  too, 
have  a  favorite  saint,  —  St.  Francis  of  Assisi.' 

"  I  told  him  of  having  been  forced  in  childish  days  to 
learn  the  Psalm  of  Life.  He  laughed  heartily  at  the 


A   CORNER    IN    LONGFELLOW'S   STUDY 

IN    THE   POET'S    HOME,    CAMBRIDGE. 


252  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

description  of  the  profound  distaste  and  complete  mys 
tification  of  a  miss  of  eight  years  at  this,  his  immortal 
poem ;  but  he  asked,  '  You  came  at  last  to  understand 
it,  did  you  not  ? ' 

"  He  agreed  with  his  visitor  in  a  dislike  for  the 
modern  verse  that  makes  sense  subservient  to  sound, 
and  turns  poetry  into  an  elaborate  arrangement  of 
ornate  phrases.  In  response  to  a  quotation  on  the 
question,  from  Macaulay,  to  the  effect  that  literary 
style  should  not  only  be  so  clear  that  it  can  be  under 
stood,  but  so  clear  that  it  cannot  be  misunderstood,  he 
said,  '  I  like  simplicity  in  all  things,  but  above  all  in 
poetry.' 

"  He  spoke  with  strong  aversion  of  the  crude  scep 
ticism  of  the  day,  explaining  that  the  term  '  sceptic '  was 
habitually  misapplied,  as  it  meant  not  necessarily  an 
unbeliever,  but  a  seeker  after  truth.  I  remarked  that 
the  first  order  of  mind  was  not  sceptical,  —  Shakspeare, 
Dante,  Milton,  Bacon,  Pascal,  as  compared  with  minds 
of  the  caliber  of  Voltaire  and  Gibbon ;  following  with  a 
quotation  of  Thackeray's  noble  lines,  '  O  awful,  awful 
Name  of  God !  Light  unbearable  !  Mystery  unfathom 
able  !  Vastness  immeasurable !  O  Name  that  God's 
people  did  fear  to  utter  !  O  Light  that  God's  prophet 
would  have  perished  had  he  seen  !  Who  are  they  who 
now  are  so  familiar  with  it ! '  He  seemed  much  struck. 
4  That,'  he  said,  '  is  a  very  grand  sentence.' 

He  took  down  his  magnificent  volumes  of  Dante. 
4  This  is  my  latest  present,'  said  he.  I  opened  it,  and 
exclaimed,  ;  Why,  this  is  Dutch ! '  — 4  Yes,  it  is  —  high 
Dutch,'  said  Mr.  Longfellow,  smiling;  'and  do  you 
know  there  is  no  language  in  the  world  in  which  Dante 
can  be  so  successfully  translated  as  in  Dutch,  owing  to 


THE  POET'S    VILLA   IN   OCTOBER.  253 

the  formation  of  the  participle ; '  and  he  gave  a  short 
explanation  of  the  differences  and  difficulties  of  trans 
lating  Dante  into  English  verse." 

THE   POET'S  VILLA  IN  OCTOBER. 

"  October  is  the  best  month  for  seeing  the  place  in 
all  its  beauty,"  says  a  writer  in  The  Boston  Book  Bulle 
tin.  "  Then  the  clustering  lilacs,  still  green  with  sum 
mer  freshness,  are  overrun  with  the  wild,  red  beauty  of 
riotous  woodbine,  dying  in  a  glow  of  defiance.  Then 
from  the  trees  fluttering  leaves  of  welcome  float  into 
the  outstretched  hand,  or  fall  gently  before  the  advan 
cing  feet. 

"  The  old  elm  at  the  door  is  stripped  of  its  leaves,  and 
you  wonder  at  the  fine  network  of  interlacing  boughs. 
Charles  River,  now  clearly  seen,  winds  along  like  an  S 
of  running  silver.  October,  too,  is  the  time  to  walk  in 
the  old-fashioned  garden,  —  a  garden  such  as  Andrew 
Marvell's  must  have  been :  — 

'  I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 
But  so  with  roses  overgrown, 
And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 
To  be  a  little  wilderness.' 

"  This  '  little  wilderness '  is  shut  out  from  inharmo 
nious  sights  and  sounds.  To  come  from  the  noisy  world 
into  its  cool  retreat,  is  from  Avernus  to  the  Happy 
Valley. 

44  One  can  imagine  fairies  in  the  flower-cups,  and  spir 
its  gliding  down  the  shaded  walks,  —  spirits  of  stately 
dames  in  embroidered  petticoats  and  high-heeled  slip 
pers,  and  gallant  courtiers  with  sheathed  swords  and 
powdered  cues ;  and,  with  these  majestic  ghosts,  the 


254     HENRY  WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

fair  young  Muse  of  poetry,  gazing  at  them  with  clear 
eyes  unabashed,  knowing  that  at  her  hands  they  lose 
not  one  grace  or  remembered  glory. 

"  Sitting  in  the  half-ruined  summer-house,  I  sometimes 
almost  wished  the  doctrine  of  Pythagoras  were  reversed, 
and  that  my  soul  imght  pass  into  the  flower  growing 
beside  me,  or  the  bird  singing  overhead.  I  envied  the 
little  golden  lady-bugs  that  sunned  their  magnificence 
in  the  poet's  garden,  and  wondered  if  the  lazy  cater 
pillars  knew  what  good  fortune  awaited  them  as  butter 
flies  in  this  earthly  paradise." 

JOHN  T.  TROWBRIDGE'S  REMINISCENCES. 

John  T.  Trowbridge,  in  an  entertaining  biographical 
sketch  in  The  Youth's  Companion,  says :  — 

"  A  little  more  than  sixty-five  years  ago,  in  the  city 
of  Portland,  Me.,  —  which,  by  the  way,  was  not  a  city 
then,  —  an  important  literary  event  took  place  ;  though 
surely  nobody  was  aware  of  its  importance  at  the  time 
(with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  one  small  boy),  and 
the  world  has  not  rung  with  it  since. 

"  The  said  small  boy,  aged  ten,  stole  out  of  his  father's 
house  one  evening,  with  an  agitating  secret  in  his  breast 
and  something  precious  in  his  breast-pocket.  That 
something  was  a  copy  of  verses,  —  a  little,  a  very  little 
poem,  —  which  he  had  written  by  stealth,  and  which 
he  was  now  going  to  drop  into  the  letter-box  of  the 
newspaper-office  on  the  corner. 

"  More  than  once  he  walked  by  the  door,  fearing  to 
be  seen  doing  so  audacious  a  deed.  But  hope  inspired 
him ;  and,  running  to  the  editor's  box  when  nobody  was 
near  to  observe  him,  he  stood  on  his  toes,  and,  reaching 
up,  dropped  the  poem  in. 


HIS  FIRST  POEM.  255 

"  He  hurried  home  with  a  fluttering  heart.  But  the 
next  evening  he  walked  by  the  office  again,  and  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street  looked  up  at  the  printers 
at  their  work. 

"  It  was  summer-time,  and  the  windows  were  open ; 
and  seeing  the  compositors  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  each 
with  a  shaded  lamp  over  his  case,  making  a  little  halo 
of  hope  and  romance  to  the  boy's  eyes,  he  said  to  him 
self,  '  Maybe  they  are  printing  my  poem  ! ' 

"  When  the  family  newspaper  came,  and  he  carried  it 
to  a  secret  corner,  and  opened  it  with  hope  and  fear  — 
sure  enough,  heading  the  Poet's  Corner,  and  looking 
strange,  but  oh,  so  beautiful  in  print,  there  were  his 
precious  verses ! 

"  Many  years  after,  he  told  me  the  story  of  this  first 
literary  venture,  much  as  I  have  told  it  here.  That 
earliest  poem  had  been  followed  by  works  which  had 
become  familiar  as  household  words  in  the  mouths  of 
English-speaking  people  all  over  the  world.  Honor 
and  fame  were  his  in  full  measure.  But  he  said,  with 
a  smile,  '  I  don't  think  any  other  literary  success  in  my 
life  has  made  me  quite  so  happy  since ! '  .  .  . 

"  He  became  a  contributor  to  the  best  periodicals  of 
those  .days.  But  the  pay  he  received  was  ridiculously 
small.  In  later  years,  when  editors  were  glad  to  get 
a  contribution  from  him  on  any  terms,  he  once  spoke 
of  having  just  received  for  a  poem  a  price  which  seemed 
to  him  very  large.  I  replied,  that  it  did  not  seem  to 
me  excessive,  considering  the  name  and  fame  that  went 
with  it.  'Ah,'  said  he, '  you  young  fellows  [to  be  called 
by  him  a  young  fellow  was  delightfully  flattering  to  my 
gray  hairs !]  have  had  the  luck  to  come  along  at  a  time 
when  good  prices  prevail.  You  would  think  differently 


256  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

if  you  had  written  as  many  poems  for  five  dollars  apiece 
as  I  have.'  .  .  . 

"  He  was  of  medium  height,  with  strong,  symmetri 
cal  features,  mild  blue  eyes  under  fine  brows,  and  hair 
and  beard  of  patriarchal  whiteness  in  his  later  years. 
Charles  Kingsley  said  of  him  in  1868,  4  Longfellow  is 
far  handsomer  and  nobler  than  his  portraits  make  him : 
I  do  not  think  I  ever  saw  a  finer  human  face.'  This 
might  have  been  truly  said  of  him  to  the  last. 

"  The  same  gentle  and  humane  spirit  which  charac 
terized  his  writings  showed  itself  also  in  the  manners 
of  the  man.  He  had  the  simplicity  which  belongs  to 
strong  and  true  natures.  He  never  remembered,  and 
his  affability  made  you  forget,  that  you  were  in  the 
presence  of  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  living  men. 

"  His  fine  sympathy  prompted  him  to  meet  people  on 
their  own  ground  of  thought  and  interest,  and  to  anti 
cipate  their  wishes.  His  ways  with  children  were  de 
lightful.  I  well  remember  his  setting  the  musical  clock 
in  his  hall  to  playing  its  tunes  for  a  little  girl  while  he 
was  occupied  with  her  elders,  because  he  could  not  bear 
that  she  should  not  also  be  entertained. 

"  On  another  occasion,  when  the  same  little  girl  and 
her  younger  sister,  in  their  own  home,  approached  with 
bashful  pleasure  as  he  held  out  his  arms  to  them,  he 
broke  down  all  barriers  at  once  by  saying,  '  Where  are 
your  dolls  ?  I  want  you  to  show  me  your  dolls.  Not 
the  fine  ones  which  you  keep  for  company,  but  those 
you  love  best  and  play  with  every  day.' 

"  Before  the  mother  could  interfere,  they  had  taken 
him  at  his  word,  and  brought  the  shabby  little  favorites 
with  battered  noses,  and  were  eagerly  telling  Mr.  Long 
fellow  their  names  and  histories,  while  he  questioned 


KIND-HEAR  TEDNE88.  257 

them  with  an  interest  which  wholly  won  their  childish 
hearts. 

"  It  was  some  time  before  this  that  he  brought  a 
friend  to  the  house,  and  our  W ,  then  a  boy  of  thir 
teen,  took  us  out  on  the  lake  in  his  boat.  The  friend, 

who  was  in  feeble  health,  wished  to  pull  one  oar.  W , 

full  of  health  and  spirits,  pulled  the  other,  and  pulled 
too  hard  for  him.  He  continued  to  do  so,  in  spite  of 
my  remonstrance,  when  Mr.  Longfellow  said,  — 

"  4  Let  him  row  in  his  own  way.  He  enjoys  it,  and 
we  mustn't  interfere  with  a  boy's  happiness.  It  makes 
no  difference  to  us  whether  we  go  forward,  or  only 
around  and  around.' 

"  He  seemed  to  consider  the  happiness  of  the  young 
as  something  sacred. 

"  He  was  hospitable  and  helpful  to  other  and  younger 
writers.  How  many  are  indebted  to  him  for  words  of 
encouragement  and  cheer !  The  last  letter  I  ever  re 
ceived  from  him  was  written  during  his  illness  in  the 
winter,  when  he  took  the  trouble  to  send  me  an  exceed 
ingly  kind  word  regarding  something  of  mine  he  had 
just  seen  in  a  magazine,  and  which  had  chanced  to 
please  him. 

"  He  was  tolerant  to  the  last  degree  of  other  people's 
faults.  I  never  heard  him  speak  with  any  thing  like 
impatience  of  anybody,  except  a  certain  class  of  critics 
who  injure  reputations  by  sitting  in  judgment  upon 
works  they  have  not  the  heart  to  feel  or  the  sense  to 
understand. 

"  Some  kind  friend  once  sent  me  a  review  in  which 

a  poor  little  volume  of  my  own  verses  was  scalped  and 

tomahawked  with  savage  glee.     Turning  the  leaf,  I  was 

consoled  to  see  a  volume  of  Longfellow's  treated  in  the 

17 


258  HENEY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

same  slashing  style.  For  I  reflected,  4  The  critic  who 
strikes  at  him  blunts  the  weapon  with  which  he  would 
wound  others.' 

"Meeting  him  in  a  day  or  two,  I  found  that  some 
equally  kind  friend  had  sent  a  copy  of  the  review  to 
him.  Seeing  that  he  was  annoyed  by  it,  I  said,  4 1  may 
well  be  disturbed  when  they  try  to  blow  out  my  small 
lantern,  but  why  should  you  care  when  they  puff  away 
at  your  star?'  He  replied,  'The  ill-will  of  anybody 
hurts  me.  Besides,  there  are  some  people  who  will  be 
lieve  what  this  man  says.  If  he  cannot  speak  well  of 
a  book,  why  speak  of  it  at  all  ?  The  best  criticism  of 
an  unworthy  book  is  silence.' 

"He  had  suffered  from  abundant  foolish  and  unjust 
criticism  in  earlier  days ;  but  his  wise,  calm  spirit  was 
never  more  than  temporarily  ruffled  by  it." 

HIS  RELIGION 

At  a  Longfellow  memorial  service  in  the  Unitarian 
Church  at  Newport,  the  pastor  took  occasion  to  remark 
that  Longfellow,  in  his  religious  sympathies,  was  an 
earnest  and  life-long  Unitarian,  and,  like  his  fellow- 
poets  William  Cullen  Bryant,  Bayard  Taylor,  John 
Greenleaf  Whittier,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  and  James 
Russell  Lowell,  had  given  distinguished  honor  to  the 
liberal  faith  to  which  he,  as  they,  belonged. 


GENEEAL   CEITIOISM. 


"  T3OETRY,"  says  Ruskin,  "  is  the  presentation  to 
J-      the    imagination,    in    musical    form,   of    noble 
grounds  for  the  noble  emotions  ;  "  and  Goethe  said  that 
art  is  form  alone  (Die,  Kunst  ist  nur  Gestaltung). 

If  these  canons  are  applied  to  the  poems  of  Long 
fellow,  most  of  them  will  be  found  to  stand  the  test. 
His  poetry  is  musical,  is  imaginative,  is  noble.  He  is 
the  moral  poet,  the  children's  poet,  the  people's  poet. 
He  is  "everybody's  poet."  His  poetical  productions  are 
monochromatic,  monotonic  ;  the  range  of  their  rhythms 
and  rhymes  is  narrow ;  but  the  diction  is  so  felicitous, 
the  sentiment  so  artless,  the  thought  so  pure,  and  the 
melody  so  perfectly  sweet,  that  we  not  only  do  not  miss 
the  intricate  harmonies  and  winding  rhythmus  of  Swin 
burne  and  Tennyson,  but  are  well  pleased  that  the  poet 
of  the  fireside  should  sing  in  his  own  simple  way.  We 
like  to  remember  him  as  one 

"  Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 
As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start." 

The  man  who  could  write  Sandalphon,  The  Ladder 
of  St.  Augustine,  Snow-Flakes,  Daybreak,  The  Chil 
dren's  Hour,  Suspiria,  Seaweed,  The  Day  is  Done,  The 
Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The  Skeleton  in  Armor,  Ex 
celsior,  A  Psalm  of  Life,  The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs, 

259 


260  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Paul  Revere's  Ride,  Noel,  and  Morituri  Salutamus,  -  - 
the  man  who.  can  write  such  poems  as  these,  is  immortal. 
In  accordance  with  the  plan  pursued  throughout  this 
work,  the  writer  will  give  in  this  part  the  thought  and 
criticism  of  various  minds,  thus  bestowing  upon  the 
reader  some  portion  of  the  pleasure  experienced  in  a 
social  or  literary  conversation.  Detailed  criticisms  on 
the  poet's  separate  volumes  have  already  been  given. 

INFLUENCE  ON  AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 

An  anonymous  critic  says,  "  To  appreciate  aright  Mr. 
Longfellow's  literary  service  to  this  country,  it  is  ne 
cessary  to  go  back  in  imagination  to  the  epoch  when 
he  began  his  literary  career,  — 1825.  American  litera 
ture  was  not  then  born.  The  very  appetite  for  it 
had  to  be  evoked ;  the  very  means  of  giving  it  to  the 
public,  to  be  created.  The  only  great  publishing  house 
of  the  day  was  almost  wholly  devoted  to  furnishing 
readers  with  English  reprints.  Not  one  of  our  present 
magazines  or  literary  periodicals  existed.  A  few  reli 
gious  weeklies  were  narrow,  intolerant,  and  controver 
sial:  the  dailies  were  intensely  partisan  and  bitterly 
personal.  Charles  Dickens's  caricatures  in .  Martin 
Chuzzlewit,  published  in  1843,  would  not  have  been 
so  hateful  if  they  had  not  been  so  true.  Companionship 
in  letters  hardly  existed  for  the  Americans.  Bryant 
had  indeed  published  his  Thanatopsis,  and  Washing 
ton  Irving  his  Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York, 
a  few  years  previous.  But  Poe  had  not  yet  issued  his 
first  book.  Motley  was  trying  his  pen  unsuccessfully  at 
fiction,  and  was  yet  to  learn  that  he  was  an  historian. 
Whittier  was  just  leaving  the  farm  and  the  shoemaker's 
bench,  to  become  editor  of  a  short-lived  tariff  nevvo- 


LONGFELLOW  A  PURITAN.  261 

paper.  Cooper  had  yet  in  the  crucible  his  unformed 
stories  of  Indian  and  pioneer  life.  Hawthorne  had 
hardly  touched  pen  to  paper,  except  in  college'  exer 
cises;  and  Prescott  was  unknown,  save  as  a  brilliant 
essayist,  and  only  to  the  limited  circle  of  readers  of  The 
North  American  Review,  American  life  was  prosaic ; 
and,  before  it  could  feel  the  glow  of  its  own  poetry,  it 
must  know  something  of  the  poetry  of  the  past.  This 
was  Mr.  Longfellow's  first  service  to  his  countrymen : 
he  was  a  mediator  between  the  old  and  the  new;  he 
translated  the  romance  of  the  past  into  the  language  of 
universal  life.  Out  of  the  closed  volume  he  gathered 
the  flowers  that  lay  there  pressed  and  dead  and  odor 
less.  He  breathed  into  them  the  breath  of  life ;  and 
they  bloomed,  and  were  fragrant  again.  He  came  to 
the  past  as  the  south  winds  come  to  the  woods  in 
spring;  and  the  trees  put  out  their  leaves,  and  the 
earth  its  mosses,  and  the  dell  its  wild-flowers,  to  greet 
him.  Each  of  his  larger  poems  is  thus  a  revivification  of 
a  buried  past.  For  each  he  made  patient  preparation 
in  most  careful  and  pains-taking  study." 

LONGFELLOW  A  PURITAN. 

Another  has  said :  — 

"  The  Puritan  in  some  directions  was  strong  in  him. 
It  made  him  manful,  and  it  kept  him  cleanly.  It  made 
him  deplore  the  misused  talents  of  a  De  Musset,  and 
sorrow  with  real  sorrow  over  the  grand  genius  of  Swin 
burne  grovelling  in  the  mire  of  sense.  The  women  he 
has  given  us  —  Evangeline,  Minnehaha,  Priscilla  —  are 
pure  creations.  They  are  not  void  of  emotion,  though 
they  may  not  thrill  with  passion.  As  he  was  a  Puritan, 
he  made  them  live  with  a  full  consciousness  of  life  in  its 


262  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

duties  and  affections.  As  he  was  a  Puritan,  he  turned 
away  from  the  wilder  tumults  of  their  hearts.  His,  in 
fine,  was  a  Puritanism  which  had  lost  its  rancor,  its 
narrowness,  and  its  bigotry,  and  displayed  only  its 
vigor,  its  virtues,  and,  if  not  its  overshadowing  God 
fearing,  at  least  that  simple  reverence  for  the  Godlike 
essence  which  tells  its  story  more  in  the  turn  of  thought 
to  divine  attributes  than  in  the  loud  cry  to  the  clouds. 
His  passing  away  is  the  end  of  a  beautiful  song  that 
has  not  had  a  single  false  note  in  it.  Such  gentle 
voices  as  Whittier's  and  Holmes's  remain  behind  him, 
but  with  him  falls  the  lordly  oak  of  American  poetry; 
and,  let  his  decline  have  been  ever  so  gentle,  the  earth 
must  resound  as  he  touches  the  clay." 

THE  AMERICAN- 

In  an  editorial  The  American  thus  spoke  of  his 
genius : — 

"  His  is  a  book  for  a  quiet  hour,  a  sweet  solace  when 
the  heart  is  weary  (as  whose  is  not?)  with  the  cares 
and  turmoils  of  the  world.  In  his  pages  we  find  home, 
friends,  loving  companionships,  and  the  hopes  and  fears 
common  to  humanity,  all  transfigured  and  glorified  by 
the  touch  of  genius.  In  the  translucent  mirror  of  his 
mind  are  reflected,  not  only  the  brightness  of  the  sky 
and  the  brave  splendors  of  the  flowers,  but  the  veiled 
beauty  of  the  clouds  that  pass." 

WILLIAM  D.   HOWELLS. 

William  Dean  Howells  in  The  Harvard  Register  for 
January,  1881,  called  Longfellow  "a  poet  only  less 
known  tkan  Shakspeare."  And  of  his  art  he  says, 
"  Never  marred  by  eccentricity  or  extravagance,  by  fal- 


TUE  NEW   YORK  TRIBUNE.  263 

tering  good  feeling  or  faltering  good  taste,  it  is  still, 
what  it  has  always  been,  a  humane  and  beneficent  influ 
ence,  as  well  as  an  exquisite  science." 

LITERARY   STYLE. 

Of  his  style  some  one  has  said :  — 

"  The  subtle  analysis  of  a  simple  feeling  follows  the 
simple  musical  statement  of  its  cause,  and  is  illustrated 
by  a  figure  growing  directly  from  that  statement,  and 
all  combined  in  a  manner  that  is  masterly  in  its  pres 
entation." 

THE  NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE. 

The  New  York  Tribune  said :  — 

"  It  has  been  his  fortune  to  exemplify  the  value  of 
literature  in  the  world's  affairs.  During  an  era  spe 
cially  marked  by  devotion  to  material  advancement  and 
successes,  he  has  maintained  the  dignity  of  literature. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  inquire  here  whether  he  was  a  man 
of  great  and  original  genius;  nor  would  he  probably 
have  claimed  to  be,  since  his  critical  faculties  were  of 
that  kind  which  are  proof  against  an  over-estimate  of 
self :  but  he  was  a  dexterous  interpreter  of  the  highest 
genius  of  others,  while  his  work  was  marked  by  that 
talent  which  sometimes  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish 
from  marked  original  faculty  and  indisputable  creative 
power.  His  taste  was  infallible.  In  all  his  numerous 
volumes  it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  a  single  instance 
of  careless  or  slovenly  work.  In  scholarly  acquire 
ments,  in  the  almost  universal  knowledge  which  in 
forms  much  of  his  poetry,  in  thorough  acquaintance 
with  the  books  of  all  ages  and  of  all  peoples,  among 
American  men  of  letters  he  stood  almost  alone,  —  at 


264     HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

least,  was  surpassed  by  none.  As  the  memory  recalls 
the  variety  of  his  productions,  ranging  as  they  do 
through  ancient  and  modern  themes,  arid  the  rare  and 
unusual  knowledge  which  informs  them  and  lends  to 
them  perpetual  illustration,  we  comprehend  the  differ 
ence  between  a  mere  lumber  of  learning  which  makes 
the  pedant,  and  that  universal  research  which  richly 
furnishes  the  poet.  He  was  eminently  a  gracious 
writer.  Through  all  his  pages  one  anxious  to  make 
such  a  quest  would  look  in  vain  for  any  trace  of  irri 
tability,  of  satirical  impatience,  of  morbid  feeling,  of 
jealousy,  or  of  vanity.  There  was  in  him  a  natural 
amiability  which  forbade  the  least  thought  of  giving 
pain.  He  always  sang  with  a  kind  of  native  politeness, 
and  put  into  his  poetry  a  sympathetic  courtesy  which 
won  the  hearts  of  his  innumerable  readers.  To  this 
more  than  to  any  other  cause  Mr.  Longfellow  owed  his 
remarkable  popularity.  If  his  talents  and  acquirements 
had  been  less,  he  would  still  have  been  admired  and 
beloved.  The  world  yields  its  highest  reverence  to 
few;  but  it  surrenders  its  heart  and  its  grateful  appre 
ciation  the  more  readily  to  those  who  make  no  inordi 
nate  demands  upon  its  intellect,  but  keenly  comprehend 
the  vicissitudes  of  life,  mourning  with  those  who 
mourn,  rejoicing  with  those  who  rejoice,  and  extending 
sympathy  wherever  and  whenever  the  need  of  it  is  most 
keenly  felt." 

MARGARET  FULLER'S  CRITICISM. 

A  writer  in  The  Nation  has  spoken  of  Margaret 
Fuller's  criticism  of  the  poet,  and  touched  upon  his 
general  characteristics.  He  says :  — 

"  It  is  nearly  forty  years  since  Margaret  Fuller,  writ- 


MARGARET  FULLER'S   CRITICISM.  265 

ing  in  The  New  York  Tribune,  startled  the  proprieties 
of  Boston  by  some  sharp  criticisms  on  Longfellow  and 
Lowell,  then  in  the  first  flush  of  their  fame.  She  de 
clared  Lowell's  early  poems  to  be  crude  and  imitative, 
and  those  of  Longfellow  to  be,  in  a  great  degree,  '  ex 
otic.'  Each  poet  met  the  charge  in  his  own  way, — 
Lowell  with  brilliant  sarcasm,  and  Longfellow  with 
good-natured  indifference.  Public  sympathy  went  with 
them ;  but  we  can  now  see,  at  this  distance  of  scene, 
how  each  profited  by  these  criticisms.  Lowell  dropped 
from  his  collected  works  the  greater  part  of  his  early 
poems,  and  Longfellow  soon  achieved  his  greatest  suc 
cesses  by  boldly  drawing  strength  from  his  own  soil. 

"In  justice  to  Margaret  Fuller,  it  must  be  remem 
bered  that  she  was  one  of  the  first  to  recognize  the  pure 
and  elevating  tone  of  Longfellow's  verse,  and  to  defend 
him  cordially  from  the  charge  of  plagiarism  as  brought 
in  those  days  by  Poe  and  others.  But  she  pointed  out 
with  some  truth,  that  it  was  at  first  his  tendency  to 
offer  us,  as  she  pointedly  phrased  it,  'flowers  of  all 
climes,  and  wild  flowers  of  none ; "  that  in  the  pretty 
prelude  to  Voices  of  the  Night,  for  instance,  which 
all  schoolgirls  were  then  reciting,  he  sought  the  woods 
at  '  Pentecost,'  and  found  c  bishop's-caps,'  when  both 
of  these  words  came  really  out  of  books,  and  did  not 
habitually  pass  current  on  any  New  England  hillside. 
She  also  said,  with  perfect  truth,  that  in  The  Spanish 
Student  —  then  his  only  long  poem  —  the  execution  was 
to  a  certain  extent  "•  academical ; '  and  she  instanced 
as  works  of  far  more  promise  on  his  part  such  short 
poems  as  The  Village  Blacksmith  and  To  the  Driv 
ing  Cloud,  which  she  considered  to  be,  so  to  speak, 
indigenous.  These  criticisms  were  expressed  somewhat 


266  HENRY    WADSWOKTU    LONGFELLOW. 

t 

abruptly,  no  doubt,  for  tact,  which  has  been  called  the 
virtue  of  cowards,  certainly  was  not  Miss  Fuller's  prime 
merit;  but  it  will  alwa}*s  remain  doubtful  whether, 
without  them,  we  should  have  had  Evangeliiie  and 
Hiawatha. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  say,  at  this  distance  of  time,  how 
much  of  Longfellow's  poetic  change  of  base  was  due  to 
criticism,  and  how  much  to  inward  development.  It  is 
to  be  noticed  that  he  had  already  published  a  few  other 
poems  essentially  American  in  motif  besides  those  Miss 
Fuller  mentioned;  among  which  should  especially  be 
named  The  Skeleton  in  Armor  and  The  Wreck  of  the 
Hesperus.  It  is  at  any  rate  certain  that  from  this  time 
he  dwelt  more  and  more  upon  these  honi&  themes 
which  he  had  been  accused  of  discarding,  so  that  he 
soon  became  as  essentially  national  in  his  poetic  spirit 
as  Emerson  or  Whittier.  It  is  now  clear  that  his  great 
successes,  his  signal  triumphs,  were  won  by  throwing 
himself  wholly  upon  cis-Atlantic  themes  in  Evange- 
line  and  Hiawatha. 

"  That  tempting  phrase  of  Coleridge's  has  much  to 
answer  for,  — '  the  kind  of  obscurity  which  is  a  com 
pliment  to  the  reader.'  Coleridge  himself  certainly 
flattered  his  readers  pretty  profusely,  if  this  be  the 
standard ;  while  Longfellow,  though  he  wrote  from 
Coleridge's  own  inkstand,  drew  from  it  no  such  ink. 
There  is  undoubtedly  a  profound  delight  in  poems  like 
many  in  Browning's  'Men  and  Women,'  which  seem 
to  be  inexhaustible  in  what  they  yield  to  you,  because 
they  yield  very  slowly.  They  are  like  the  fountain 
called  '  La  Roche  qui  Pleure  '  at  Fontainebleau,  which 
gives  the  thirsty  traveller  only  a  drop  at  a  time,  but 


LE  TEMPS.  267 

you  can  always  go  back  to  it,  and  be  sure  of  another 
drop.  Shall  we,  therefore,  do  injustice  to  Longfellow's 
ever-fresh  and  ever-living  spring?  As  we  turn  the 
leaves  of  his  books,  each  page  tells  an  experience,  utters 
an  emotion,  or  affords  a  thought ;  each  page,  like  each 
day  in  the  life  of  his  Village  Blacksmith,  offers  '  some 
thing  attempted,  something  done.'  If  you  say,  that, 
after  all,  the  very  ease  of  the  execution  shows  that  the 
work  is  not  difficult  to  do,  the  answer  is  obvious  i  why 
does  not  some  one  else  do  it  ?  After  all,  poetry  has  two 
factors,  —  the  thought  or  emotion  and  the  expression; 
and  the  success  lies  in  the  just  combination  of  the  two. 
Grant  that  we  or  our  cousins  and  friends  get  up  every 
morning  with  thoughts  profounder  than  any  of  Long 
fellow's  :  it  does  the  world  no  good  unless  we  express 
them.  Take  the  poets  we  proclaim  as  greater  than 
Longfellow,  —  Browning,  for  instance,  or  Emerson, — 
and  how  often  they  fail  to  express  their  thoughts  so 
that  anybody  can  enjoy  them  without  a  course  of  les 
sons  from  an  experienced  professor !  If  we  admit  as 
true  for  poets  what  Ruskin  says  of  painters,  that  l  it  is 
in  the  perfection  and  precision  of  the  instantaneous 
line  that  the  claim  to  immortality  is  made,'  we  must 
say  that  no  American  up  to  this  time  has  built  his  fame 
on  surer  grounds  than  Longfellow." 

LE  TEMPS. 

In  Le  Temps  of  Paris  (Jan.  13, 1879),  almost  a  whole 
feuilleton  was  given  up  to  a  review  of  Kerarnos  and  its 
author.  The  writer  of  the  article  thought  that  "the 
French  translations  of  Longfellow  surpass  all  the  rest, 
and  seem  to  have  been  produced  by  magic."  He 
further  said,  "  Is  it  not  strange  to  see  one  of  the  most 


268  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

illustrious  and  most  popular  citizens  (a  representative 
man,  according  to  the  expression  of  Emerson)  of  this 
great,  go-ahead  nation,  taking  delight  in  these  visions 
of  Europe,  and  the  evocation  of  the  past  ?  An  explana 
tion  of  this  contrast,  after  all  very  reasonable,  will  be 
given  to  us  some  day. 

"In  America,  by  the  side  of  intrepid  explorers,  un 
daunted  miners  and  colonists,  by  the  side  of  engineers 
with  vertiginous  conceptions,  bankers  or  silk-merchants 
whose  millions  or  failures  seem  to  come  to  us  from 
fabulous  countries,  there  is  a  people  who  live  in  the 
past.  Their  minds  dwell  on  the  places  consecrated  by 
history,  for  which  they  feel  a  kind  of  nostalgia ;  places 
where  ruins  testify  that  man  has  loved  and  suffered  : 
they  dream  with  passion  of  Europe,  —  its  legendary 
personages ;  the  monuments  of  Rome,  of  Paris,  of  Lon 
don,  and  of  Vienna ;  the  paintings  of  Florence ;  the 
marble  palaces  of  Genoa,  of  Venice ;  the  '  burgs '  of 
Germany.  Their  minds  constantly  commune  with  the 
soul  of  the  past. 

"Besides  other  very  great  merits,  we  cannot  deny  to 
Longfellow  that  of  having  been  and  of  still  being  the 
most  learned  and  most  eloquent  interpreter  of  that 
class  (numerous,  we  are  informed)  of  his  valiant  fellow- 
countrymen." 

THE  BOSTON  EVENING  TRANSCRIPT. 

A  contributor  to  The  Boston  Evening  Transcript 
has  some  words  on  the  poet  as  a  translator  of  German 
verse :  — 

"Mr.  Longfellow  has  been  said  to  have  borrowed 
largely  from  German  sources ;  and,  indeed,  his  more 
popular  lyrics  are  filled  with  the  spirit,  and  often  with 


THE  BOSTON   TRANSCRIPT.  269 

the  melody,  of  German  poetry.  He  has,  as  it  were, 
acclimatized  a  foreign  flower,  and  made  its  fragrance 
our  own ;  though  all  that  he  has  given  us  is  sweet,  too, 
with  the  natural  aroma  of  his  own  gracious  personality. 
It  is  a  true  service  he  has  rendered  his  countrymen, 
and  a  good  they  may  well  be  grateful  for.  Not  all  of 
us  may  leave  our  cares,  and  wander  at  will  beside  the 
Rhine,  or  float  upon  lakes  that  mirror  the  snow- wreathed 
summits  of  Switzerland :  shall  we  not,  then,  thank  the 
friend  who  brings  us  home  the  forget-me-not  and  the 
mountain-violet  to  plant  beside  our  doorways?  This 
is  what  Longfellow  has  done  for  us  in  much  of  his  own 
song,  and  still  more  in  his  translations,  which  have 
become  a  part  of  our  household  words.  Has  he  not 
made  Uhland's  delightful  ballad,  'The  Castle  by  the 
Sea,'  as  dear  a  possession  to  the  English  as  it  ever  was 
to  the  German  heart  ?  The  student  of  German  litera 
ture  misses,  perhaps,  the  indescribable  harmony  of 
Uhland's  melodious  verse ;  but  the  main  current  of 
feeling  and  remarkable  simplicity  of  the  original  are 
given  us  with  a  faithfulness  that  is  almost  as  rare  in 
works  of  this  kind  as  it  is  altogether  admirable. 

"  Indeed,  it  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  glimpses  we  get 
of  the  charming  simplicity  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  char 
acter,  —  this  faithful  following  of  the  author  he  would 
introduce  to  his  countrymen.  He  never  adds  any  thing 
for  effect,  but  simply  repeats  the  words  they  have  given 
him  as  they  were  uttered ;  and  the  result  is,  we  get  the 
flavor  of  the  German  vintage,  not  some  pleasant  bever 
age  of  an  entirely  different  growth.  Most  translations 
are  too  much  like  the  delicate  foreign  wines,  fortified 
with  brandy  for  trans-shipment  till  all  the  '  bouquet ' 
is  lost  in  the  fiery  addition.  Longfellow  brings  them 


270  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

to  us  unchanged,  except  that  in  the  transportation, 
necessarily  losing  an  evanescent  something  of  their 
distinctive  character,  they  have  imbibed  a  trace  of  his 
own  gracious  and  sunny  nature.  It  would  be  pleasant 
to  recall  them  all,  were  there  space  to  do  so,  —  the 
tender  sadness  of  the  Song  of  the  Silent  Land,  a  word- 
for-word  translation ;  the  gushing  brooklet  of  Miiller's 
4  Whither  ? '  the  many  lovely  voices  he  has  made  musi 
cal  again  in  all  our  hearts." 

MERITS  AS  A  TRANSLATOR. 

In  regard  to  his  general  merits  as  a  trance  tor,  an 
other  critic  thinks  that  "  some  of  his  versions  of  Ger 
man  and  Spanish  poems  are  incomparable  save  with 
Freiligrath's  finest  Germanizations  of  English  verse, 
and  Fitzgerald's  superb  reproductions  of  Omar  Khay 
yam.  The  plaintive  minor  of  the  ballads  of  Uhland, 
Tiedge,  Miiller,  Von  Salis,  the  serene  Catholic  earnest 
ness  and  virile  feeling  of  Spanish  devotional  poets,  and 
the  pastoral  evangelic  spirit  of  Tegn^r,  he  has  echoed 
exactly.  Even  as  a  translator,  it  is  true,  he  has  his 
limitations.  His  Jasmin  is  not  the  fiery  loving  Gascon 
barber,  last  of  the  Troubadours.  It  is  a  Cambridge 
version,  gloved  and  cravatted  for  drawing-rooms,  and 
the  society  of  young  ladies,  not  perhaps  'of  the  period.' 
His  Dante,  severely  accurate  as  it  is,  is  accurate  only, 
not  adequate.  This  he  felt  himself,  for  no  man  had  a 
more  truly  delicate  and  sensitive  literary  perception. 
He  used  to  say,  and  say  truly,  that  there  was  '  more 
of  Dante  in  Thomas  William  Parsons's  noble  lines  on 
a  bust  of  the  great  Florentine,  than  in  all  his  versions.' 
He  never  attempted  to  recast  the  matchless  yet  cynic 
grace  of  Heine's  bitterest  verse ;  and  he  quite  failed  to 


PROFESSOR  HARRISON.  271 

interpret  the  lyric  rush  of  Johannes  Ewald's  'King 
Christ,'  the  high  national  hymn  of  Denmark.  In  his 
own  walk  he  is  without  an  equal.  The  grace,  the 
purity,  the  sweetness,  the  unaffected  dignity,  the 
rhythmic  felicity  in  the  form  of  his  work,  are  his  alone. 
.  .  .  Longfellow  has  done  more  than  any  other  Ameri 
can  writer  to  dignify  the  literary  character  in  America. 
Often  assailed,  and  often  with  virulence  and  brutality, 
he  kept  his  pen  free  from  controversy,  eschewing  bit 
terness,  and  adorned  his  art  by  steadfast  devotion. 
Posterity  will  honor  in  him  an  artist,  who,  in  an  emi 
nently  sensational  and  heady  and  uproarious  age,  never 
wrote  a  sensational  nor  a  heady  line  ;  and  never  printed 
a  poem  till  he  had  brought  it  by  repeated  polishings  as 
near  perfection  as  he  could." 

PROFESSOR  J.  A.  HARRISON. 

The  sonnets  of  Longfellow  are  exquisite  productions, 
faultless  and  lucid.  Mr.  Charles  D.  Deshler  thinks 
that  the  finest  are  those  entitled  4  Three  Friends  of 
Mine '  (Agassiz,  Sumner,  Felton),  and  the  ones  on 
Dante,  Chaucer,  Keats,  Shakspeare,  and  Milton.  Pro 
fessor  J.  A.  Harrison  of  the  University  of  Virginia  has, 
in  The  Literary  World  for  Feb.  26,  1881,  a  most  dainty 
and  poetical  paper  on  Longfellow's  sonnets.  Happy 
the  poet  who  falls  into  the  hands  of  such  a  critic  as 
this ! 

Professor  Harrison  says :  — 

"  English  is  full  of  beautiful  sonnets.  Sidney,  Shak 
speare,  Wordsworth,  Keats,  Browning,  —  it  needs  not  the 
mention  of  these  names  to  call  up  troops  of  beautiful 
tilings  that  have  taken  this  subtile  form,  and  tremble 
before  us  like  dewdrops  in  amber,  —  immortal  loves, 


272          HENRY  WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

shining  eulogies,  contemplations  that  sing  themselves 
into  poems,  passion 

*  That  eagle-like  doth  with  her  starry  wings 
Beat,'  — 

as  old  Chapman  sings ;  but  few  of  them  are  subtler  or 
tenderer  than  these  airy  filaments  of  Longfellow,  woven 
of  his  memories  and  his  tears, 

'Like  his  desire,  lift  upward  and  divine.' 

"How  free  Longfellow  is  from  those  'jigging  veins 
of  rhyming  mother-wit '  from  which  Marlowe  called  his 
audience  !  how  natural  and  spontaneous  his  utterances 
are  I  Quocumque  adspicias,  nihil  nisi  pontus  et  aer,  might 
well  in  '  md's  tongue  typify  the  large  features  of  his 
art  —  it  breadth,  ambience,  and  simplicity.  Howells 
delicateiy  caught  the  tone  of  these  sonnets  when  he 
said  of  one  of  them  'that  the  effect  in  the  sonnet  on 
Chaucer  is  of  a  rich  translucence,  like  that  of  precious 
stones.'  In  them  the  poet  is  the  prey  of  memories  and 
whisperings.  '  The  Old  Bridge  at  Florence  '  stirs  him 
to  quaint  monosyllables  as  of  'an  old  man  babbling  of 
green  fields  ; '  '  Milton '  is  a  far  and  mysterious  music 
on  his  spirit,  like  the  wooings  of  some  Vita  Nuova ;  in 
4  Keats '  there  is  pity  as  for  some  glorious  chrysalis  that 
never  found  the  way  out  of  its  own  beauteous  laby 
rinth  into  the  yellow  light  of  day ;  in  '  Shakspeare ' 
alone  is  full  fruition  of  memory  and  hope.  Changing  a 
word  in  Habington's  lines,  we  might  read,  — 

'  while  our  famous  Charles 
Doth  whisper  Sidney's  Stella  to  her  streams,'  — 

so  full  of  pleasant  rememberings  is  the  poet  of  the 
winding  river  at  his  feet.  There  are  few  more  touch- 


PROFESSOR  HARRISON.  273 

ing  lines  in  all  literature  than  those  that  close  the  son 
net  to  Charles  Sumner, — 

\ 

'  Thou  hast  but  taken  thy  lamp  and  gone  to  bed ; 
I  stay  a  little  longer,  as  one  stays 
To  cover  up  the  embers  that  still  burn.' 

"  Longfellow  is  wonderful  in  these  homely  felici 
ties.  Reproach  him  as  you  please  for  excessive  har- 
moniousness,  —  a  swan  overladen  with  song,  —  there  is 
a  spiritual  sweetness  that  penetrates  like  the  odor  of 
aloe-wood,  a  richness  as  of  ambergris,  a  reverence  for 
things  holy  and  absent  that  is  not  so  much  unction  as 
awe.  With  all  his  comprehensive  learning,  he  is  as 
plain  and  pure  as  an  ascetic ;  the  dust  of  libraries  has 
become  an  illumined  dust,  which  flickers  in  his  sunny 
fantasy,  and  moulds  itself  into  all  imaginable  gracious 
forms.  He  exhales  his  poems  as  a  flower  does  its  per 
fume  ;  he  never  writes  good  poetry  and  then  spoils  it 
by  keeping  it  by  him  till  old  age,  as  Davenant  said  of 
Lord  Brooke.  The  beauty  of  his  youth  is  with  us  no 
less  than  the  wisdom  and  pathos  of  his  age,  —  a  circle 
in  which  the  two  edges  of  the  golden  ring  are  but  a 
span  apart. 

"  A  friend  finely  said  that  the  Greek  worship  of  ideas 
was  the  least  gross  of  all  idolatries.  This  ethereal  pagan 
ism  is  not  an  obvious  part  of  Longfellow's  poetry :  he  is 
no  would-be  psychologist,  though  he  is  so  full  of  the  first 
part  of  that  compound.  An  overshadowing  tenderness, 
regret,  longing,  is  the  burden  of  much  of  his  poetry  and 
many  of  these  sonnets.  He  touches  the  spirit  with  an 
infinite  softness,  like  a  hand  from  the  other  world:  he 
breathes  upon  the  clear  mirror  of  the  soul,  and  for  a 
moment  it  is  clouded  with  tears.  He  is  a  voice  like 
18 


274  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

those  beautiful  muezzin  voices  of  the  East,  that  are 
chosen  for  their  harmony  and  depth,  rather  than  a  trum 
pet.  Could  the  liquid  intonations  of  Voices  of  the  Night 
break  into  the  discords  of  a  war-song?  Could  a  violet 
burst  into  a  tiger-lily  ?  The  gentle  philosophies  of  the 
past  are  more  to  him  than  the  criard  speculations  of 
the  present,  —  a  mellow  drop  out  of  the  cellars  of  the 
monks,  than  all  the  fuming  vintages  of  the  morrow. 
Essentially  a  romanticist,  a  deep  drinker  of  German  mys 
ticism,  a  sonneteer  devoted  to  the  forms  in  which  Dante 
and  Petrarch  breathed  their  early  and  their  late  efful 
gence,  a  delightful  traveller  lingering  in  his  wayside 
inns  to  tell  us  some  musical  story,  a  swallow  that  has 
built  under  the  roof  of  Legend,  a  scholar  that  has  the 
instinct  of  picking  out  the  precious  things  from  an  an 
cient  or  dilapidated  literature,  like  the  diamond  eye  of 
the  Delhi  idol,  and  transforming  them  into  palpitating 
lines,  —  how  many  things  does  the  poet  suggest ! 

"If  there  is  one  quality  in  him,  however,  which 
pleases  the  writer  beyond  all  others,  it  is  his  lovely 
tranquillity,  —  that  dew  of  Hermon  which  he  sprinkles 
on  his  readers  with  a  gesture  of  such  benignity.  In 
an  age  so  full  of  storm  as  ours,  —  of  dissolving  beliefs, 
and  groaning  theologies,  and  metaphysical  phantasma 
goria,  —  the  spell  of  his  serene  and  potent  verse  is  what 
the  Orientals  call  Jcief,  a  state  which  Bayard  Taylor 
describes  in  a  chapter  on  pipes  and  tobacco.  Anxiety, 
disease,  impatience,  are  remote  from  this  delicate  indo 
lence  in  which,  as  Longfellow  says  in  one  of  his  son 
nets,  our  thoughts 

'  Slowly  upon  the  amber  air  unroll,' 
and   one's   whole    physiology  and   psychology  become 


THE  LONDON  TIMES.  275 

pure  vision.  Do  not  these  visualized  memories  and 
foreshadowings  come  to  us  more  richly  in  Longfellow 
than  in  any  other  ?  Quaint  Thomas  Carew  must  have 
been  writing  of  him,  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago, 
when  he  said,  — 

'  Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  lighte 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  nighte, 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become  as  in  their  sphere.'" 

THE  LONDON  TIMES. 

The  London  Times  of  March  25,  1882,  contained 
a  long  editorial  on  Longfellow,  from  which  the  follow 
ing  is  extracted :  — 

"  Those  who  hereafter  may  read  the  poems  of  Bryant, 
Whittier,  Mrs.  Sigourney,  or  Longfellow,  will  find  it 
difficult  to  understand  that  they  wrote  just  while  the 
development  of  the  United  States  was  most  striking ; 
and  that  they  penned  their  finished  lines  in  the  vicinity 
of  mighty  rivers,  pathless  forests,  and  untrodden  prai 
ries.  In  the  well-turned  classic  allusions,  and  in  the 
ample  knowledge  of  European  models,  they  will  find 
much  for  admiration.  They  will  miss  —  and  the  omis 
sion  may  affect  the  durability  of  the  reputation  of  this 
school  —  native  savor  and  that  true  local  color  which 
atone  for  much  uncouthness  and  lack  of  skill  in  versifica 
tion.  .  .  .  We  are  not  forgetting  his  Hiawatha,  when  we 
say  that  he  might  have  written  his  best  poems  with  as 
much  local  fitness  in  our  own  Cambridge  as  in  its  name 
sake  across  the  Atlantic.  .  .  . 

"  There  will  be  no  disposition  at  this  season  to  speak 
a  harsh  word  of  a  poet  who  had  in  a  remarkable  degree 
the  gift  of  inspiring  his  readers  with  affection  for  him ; 


276  HENEY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

and,  in  fact,  there  are  few  points  at  which  criticism  can 
find  an  opening.  His  dulcet  verses,  or  some  specimens 
of  them,  —  for  posterity  is  pitilessly  fastidious  to  all  but 
a  few  singers,  —  are  likely  long  to  be  attractive  to  the 
multitude  of  those  who  do  not  care  to  analyze  their 
pleasures  too  minutely,  or  to  sift  the  ethical  beauty  of 
their  moral  or  sentiments  from  the  elements  of  imagina 
tion.  Some  of  his  touching  and  simple  ballads  are 
pretty  sure  to  be  familiar  to  generations  yet  to  come. 
The  purity  of  his  thoughts,  his  affinity  to  all  that  is 
noblest  in  human  nature,  and  his  unfailing  command  of 
refined,  harmonious  language,  may  continue  to  draw  to 
him  readers  who  will  not  be  deterred  by  the  judgment 
of  critics  that  he  was  not  a  great  poet.  He  himself 
well  knew  that  he  was  not  in  the  first  rank.  He  had 
in  the  youth  of  both  countries  ardent  admirers;  and 
there  was  a  time  when  men  their  elders  used  to  say 
that  he  was  to  prove  another  Tennyson.  But  poetry  at 
its  best  is  a  fabric  spun  only  by  the  strongest  brains. 
Force  of  will  and  strength  of  mind  —  qualities  akin 
to  the  gifts  of  the  successful  general  or  the  great 
mathematician  —  go  to  the  making  of  a  poem  which  the 
world  cares  to  read.  The  elegance  and  refinement  and 
ingenuity  of  The  Golden  Legend  are  far  away  from 
mediocrity,  and  are  worth  more  than  the  affectation 
of  vigor  and  profuse  inspiration  in  more  pretentious 
writers.  But  the  author  of  that  poem  does  not  belong 
to  the  same  strong,  swift-souled  race  as  Byron  or  Shel 
ley,  and  has  little  affinity  to  it. 

"  One  cannot  readily  point  to  worthy  successors  to 
the  brilliant  Boston  group.  We  are  told  that  in  Walt 
Whitman's  rough,  barbaric,  untoned  lines,  full  of  ques- 


THE  SPRINGFIELD  REPUBLICAN  277 

tionable  morality,  and  unfettered  by  rhyme,  is  the 
nucleus  of  the  literature  of  the  future.  That  may  be 
so,  and  the  Leaves  of  Grass  may  prove,  as  is  pre 
dicted,  the  foundation  of  a  real  American  literature, 
which  will  mirror  the  peculiarities  of  the  life  of  that 
continent,  and  which  will  attempt  to  present  no  false 
ideal.  Yet  we  shall  be  surprised  if  the  new  school, 
with  its  dead  set  towards  ugliness,  and  its  morbid  turn 
for  the  bad  sides  of  nature,  will  draw  people  wholly 
away  from  the  stainless  pages,  rich  in  garnered  wealth 
of  fancy  and  allusions,  and  the  sunny  pictures,  which 
are  to  be  found  in  the  books  of  the  poet  who  has  just 
died.  Mr.  Longfellow  has  left  no  enemies  behind  him  ; 
he  had  many  warm  friends  and  admirers ;  and  his  rep 
utation  as  a  poet  may  survive  much  longer  than  those 
who  vaunt  the  4  poetry  of  realism '  care  to  admit." 

R.  H.  STODDAKD. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard  has  said  of  the  poet :  "  He 
has  more  than  held  his  own  against  all  English-writing 
poets,  and  in  no  walk  of  poetry  so  positively  as  that  of 
telling  a  story.  In  an  age  of  story-tellers,  he  stands  at 
their  head.  .  .  .  Mr.  Longfellow's  method  of  telling  a 
story  will  compare  favorably  with  any  of  the  recog 
nized  masters  of  English  narrative  verse  from  Chaucer 
down." 

THE  SPRINGFIELD  REPUBLICAN. 

"  He  never  lacked,"  says  The  Springfield  Republican, 
"  the  essential  moral  sympathy  with  America,  yet  that 
sympathy  never  became  with  him  a  flaming  fire,  as  with 
Whittier,  or  a  rapier  edge,  as  with  Lowell ;  nor  did  he 
have  that  grand  sweep  of  external  nature  which  set 
aside  Bryant  as  the  embodiment  of  the  American 


278  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

scene ;  or  the  inimitable  brilliancy  that  marks  Holmes 
so  far  in  advance  of  contemporary  England;  or  the 
shrewd  union  of  Yankee  and  Orient  genius  that  re 
vealed  a  gospel  in  Emerson.  The  scarcity  of  Long 
fellow's  anti-slavery  and  patriotic  poems  proves  this 
lack  of  absolute  Americanism  in  the  humanitarian  as 
pect  of  his  verse." 

THE   LONDON  DAILY  NEWS. 

The  London  Daily  News  thinks  that  "Perhaps  one 
secret  of  Longfellow's  being  a  favorite  with  us  is,  that 
he  is  apt  to  be  one  of  the  first  poets  who  are  read  at  all. 
He  is  an  author  fit  in  every  sense  for  boys  and  girls, 
and  especially  congenial  to  the  more  healthy  minds 
among  the  young.  He  thus  acquires  a  hold  upon  the 
imagination  at  a  time  when  it  is  4  wax  to  receive,  and 
marble  to  retain ; '  and  much  that  he  wrote  is  seen 
through  the  delusive  vista  of  early  charm  and  old 
association." 

GEORGE  STEWART. 

Of  the  influence  of  Longfellow  upon  Canadian 
thought,  George  Stewart  writes  thus  in  The  Literary 
World :  — 

"  In  Lower  Canada,  where  the  highest  mental  devel 
opment  is  exemplified  by  French  writers,  who  do  their 
work  with  singular  grace  and  expression,  and  whose 
muse  takes  the  spirituelle  form,  Longfellow's  influence 
may  be  perceived  to  a  very  great  extent.  His  sugges- 
tiveness  and  harmony  can  frequently  be  seen  in  the 
poetry  of  such  men  as  Frechette,  Suite,  and  Le  May ; 
and  it  is  worth  noting  the  controlling  tendency  which 
such  minds  as  Longfellow's  and  De  Musset's  and  Be*- 


BEV.    GEORGE  ELLIS.  279 

ranger's  have  on  the  intellectual  action  of  these  young 
poets.  The  blending  of  American  and  French  thought 
forms  a  striking  combination,  and  its  charming  outcome 
may  be  readily  enough  detected  in  many  of  the  really 
delightful  things  which  these  clever  young  singers  have 
sent  out.  Pamphile  Le  May,  a  tender  poet  himself, 
and  a  man  of  exquisite  taste,  has  done  much  to  encour 
age  a  love  of  Longfellow  among  his  compatriots.  We 
are  told,  that,  by  reading  Le  May's  Evangeline,  many 
persons  were  induced  to  learn  English,  that  they  might 
get  the  gentle  story  at  first  hand,  and  in  the  exact 
words  of  its  creator.  Some,  too,  learned  English  from 
the  book  itself  and  a  dictionary ;  but  a  very  great  deal 
of  the  poem's  present  popularity  among  the  French 
is  due  to  Le  May's  efforts  to  crystallize  it  in  the  suscep 
tible  hearts  of  his  countrymen.  For  many  years  the 
Longfellow  version  of  the  story  has  been  implicitly 
regarded  as  historically  correct,  even  among  the  Eng 
lish,  who  cared  to  accept  no  other  authority.  Among 
the  French,  of  course,  no  other  account  of  the  expulsion 
will  ever  be  looked  upon  as  true.  This  one  poem,  be 
cause  of  the  sympathy  of  the  author,  as  well  as  his 
treatment  of  the  incident,  has  wound  itself  around  the 
hearts  of  the  people  of  French  Canada ;  and  Longfel 
low's  name  is  as  reverently  treasured  and  respected 
and  loved  by  them  as  any  of  their  own  writers,  ecclesi 
astical,  historical,  or  poetical." 

REV.  GEORGE  E.  ELLIS,  D.D. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society 
held  soon  after  the  poet's  death,  the  Rev.  Dr.  George 
E.  Ellis  thus  characterized  his  writings :  — 

"  But  few  of  our  associates  in  its  nearly  a  century  of 


280  HENEY   WADSWOETII  LONGFELLOW. 

years  can  have  studied  our  local  and  even  national  his 
tory  more  sedulously  than  did  Mr.  Longfellow.  And 
but  fewer  still  among  us  can  have  found  in  its  stern 
and  rugged  and  homely  actors  and  annals  so  much  that 
could  be  graced  and  softened  by  rich  and  delicate  fan 
cies,  by  refining  sentiments,  and  the  hues  and  fragrance 
of  simple  poetry.  He  took  the  saddest  of  our  New 
England  tragedies  and  the  sweetest  of  its  rural  home 
scenes,  the  wayside  inn,  the  alarum  of  war,  the  Indian 
legend,  and  the  hanging  of  the  crane  in  the  modest 
household,  which  his  genius  has  invested  with  enduring 
charms  and  morals.  Wise  and  gentle  was  the  heart 
which  could  thus  find  melodies  for  the  harp,  the  lute, 
the  lyre,  and  the  plectrum  in  our  fields  and  wildernesses, 
wreathing  them  as  nature  does  the  thickets  and  stumps 
of  the  forest  with  flowers  and  mosses.  While  all  his 
utterances  came  from  a  pure,  a  tender,  and  a  devout 
heart,  addressing  themselves  to  what  is  of  like  in  other 
hearts,  there  is  not  in  them  a  line  of  morbidness,  of  de 
pression  or  melancholy,  but  only  that  which  quickens 
and  cheers  with  robust  resolve  and  courage,  with  peace 
and  aspiring  trust.  He  has,  indeed,  used  freely  the 
poet's  license  in  playful  freedom  with  dates  and  facts. 
But  the  scenes  and  incidents  and  personages  which  most 
need  a  softening  and  refining  touch  receive  it  from  him 
without  prejudice  to  the  service  of  sober  history." 

REV.   T.   T.   HUNGER,   D.D. 

In  an  article  in  The  New  York  Independent  entitled 
"  The  Influence  of  Longfellow  on  American  Life,"  the 
Rev.  T.  T.  Hunger,  D.D.,  said:  — 

"  In  a  restless  age  he  has  given  us  an  example  of 
quiet,  and  breathed  not  a  little  of  it  into  our  lives.  No 


REV.    T.    T.   MUNGEE.  281 

one  ever  reads  a  line  of  this  poet  without  feeling  rested. 
He  never  lacks  spirit.  The  thought  is  up  to  the  theme ; 
there  is  no  indolence,  no  Oriental,  will-less  dreaming ; 
there  is  nothing  that  enervates  or  unfits  for  action. 
Still  the  feeling  inserted  into  the  reader  is  that  of  re 
pose.  This  is  not  so  in  the  greatest  poets,  but  it  may 
be  so  in  a  great  poet.  Milton  and  Shelley  and  Tenny 
son  and  Browning  summon  you  to  the  intensest  activity, 
and  leave  you  in  a  stress  of  tumultuous  thought ;  but 
Longfellow  both  feeds  and  refreshes  the  mind.  He 
takes  off  your  burden,  instead  of  adding  to  it :  he  does 
not  withdraw  the  lesson  he  sets  before  you,  but  he 
soothes  you  while  you  fulfil  it.  He  is  pre-eminently 
the  poet  of  peace  and  repose.  In  Whittier  we  feel  the 
pressure  of  an  over-acute  moral  nature :  his  lash  of 
duty  drives  us  to  our  tasks  again  (a  very  useful  thing 
to  do),  but  at  the  same  time  we  need  a  little  rest  in 
a  less  rasping  air.  It  is  a  marvel,  when  we  think  of  it, 
that  this  restless  age,  this  age  of  the  superlative,  this 
driving,  crowding,  loud-mouthed  age,  that  is  nothing  if 
not  extreme,  should  produce  a  poet  utterly  without 
these  characteristics.  I  think  this  is  a  main  reason  why 
we  love  him.  We  need  him,  as  a  tired  child  needs  a 
soothing  nurse.  This  influence  is  not  fanciful.  I  do 
not  mean  that  busy  merchants  and  harassed  lawyers 
and  perplexed  railroad  managers  go  to  the  pages  of 
Longfellow  for  rest ;  but  many  a  scholar,  many  a 
preacher  and  editor  and  teacher,  reads  these  pages,  and 
turns  to  his  work  with  a  calmer  spirit,  that  shows  itself 
in  other  printed  pages,  in  sermons  and  editorials  of  a 
better  temper,  and  in  patience  and  cheer  in  the  school 
room. 

"  He  has  made  a  fine  example  of  the  value  and  power 


282  HENRY   WADtiWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

of  simplicity  in  thought  and  feeling.  Hardly  any  thing 
in  him  is  so  conspicuous.  Read  any  poem  of  his,  and 
you  say :  How  simple  !  There  is  nothing  startling  in 
the  thought.  It  may  or  may  not  be  new ;  it  is  certainly, 
true ;  but  it  comes  to  you  in  so  natural  a  way  that  it 
does  not  surprise  you.  It  is  the  same  in  his  language. 
There  are  no  contortions  demanding  your  wonder,  noth 
ing  of  what  is  sometimes  called  style,  except  transpar 
ency.  No  surging  and  pounding  and  piling  on  and 
extravagance,  or  striving  for  effect;  but  only  a  clear, 
simple  reflection  of  clear  and  beautiful  thought.  It  is 
not  a  slight  thing  that  a  million  or  more  of  children 
are  daily  drilled  in  this  utter  truthfulness  of  speech." 

THE  SOUTHERN  LITERARY  MESSENGER. 

A  writer  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger  as  long 
ago  as  March,  1840,  in  reviewing  Voices  of  the  Night, 
thus  characterized  Mr.  LongfelloAv's  poetry  in  gen 
eral  :  — 

"  Professor  Longfellow  ranks  among  the  first  of  our 
American  poets.  There  may  be  those  who  excel  him 
in  profundity  and  grasp  of  thought,  in  beauty  of  lan 
guage,  and  smoothness  of  versification ;  but  there  is  no 
one  to  whose  vision  the  4  land  of  song  '  opens  fairer  and 
brighter.  His  are 

*  The  lids  of  Fancy's  sleepless  eyes ; ' 

and  when  he  touches  the  chords  of  his  lute,  —  that  has 
been  charmed,  perchance,  by  the  spell  of  some  gay 
troubadour,  and  awakened  from  its  silence  of  ages,  — 
when  he  touches  the  chords  of  his  lute,  his  thoughts 
drop  in  music  from  its  golden  wires,  and  thrill  us  with 
a  pleasant  melody  and  a  wizard  power.  His  poetry  is 


THE  SOUTHERN  LITERARY  MESSENGER.       283 

quaint,  sweet,  and  beautiful.  While  we  read  it,  we  are 
surrounded  with  visions,  forms,  and  images  —  fancy- 
summoned,  thought-created.  We  read  his  rhymes, 
where  the  sun  streams  through  stained  windows  and 
Gothic  arches  upon  curious  carvings  of  oak,  and  storied 
monuments,  and  illuminated  volume,  or  by  the  side  of 
streams  that  glide  along  under  green  and  drooping 
leaves,  and  flow  with  sweet  murmurings  over  silver 
sands ;  or  we  look  out  ever  and  anon,  and  catch  the 
glimpses  of  the  watching  heavens  and  the  solemn  stars, 
and  hear 

'  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night, 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls.' 

Or,  in  perusing  his  earlier  poetry,  our  brows  are  fanned 
by  the  breezes  that  come  from  the  hills  and  the  living 
streams,  and  we  behold  the  sunshine,  and  the  freshness 
and  the  gladness  of  nature." 

The  following  estimate  of  our  poet  is  found  in  vol. 
viii.  (1842)  of  the  journal  just  quoted  :  — 

"  Nor  is  it  on  paper  alone  that  Longfellow  is  a  poet. 
Poetry  enters  into  the  very  nature  of  the  man,  and 
forms  a  portion  of  his  being.  Unlike  those  '  who  coin 
their  brain  for  daily  bread/  and  whose  inspiration  only 
lasts  with  the  occasion  which  calls  it  forth,  Longfellow 
is  a  poet  by  nature,  to  whose  gifted  eye  the  humble  clod 
of  the  valley  bears  the  impress  of  its  great  Creator. 
His  melodious  words,  gushing  forth  full  of  tenderness 
and  melody,  are  but  the  outpourings  of  a  soul  as  re 
sponsive  to  each  touch  of  human  sympathy,  as  the  fa 
bled  lyre  of  Memnon  to  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun. 
The  selfish  man  cannot  be  a  poet.  To  charm  the  eye 
and  fascinate  the  ear  of  those  who  know  him  not ;  to 


284  HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

cause  the  selfish  and  indifferent  to  forget  the  reality, 
and  to  regard  the  phantoms  of  his  imagination  as  living 
and  breathing  beings ;  to  touch  the  hearts  of  the  cold, 
the  callous,  and  the  vain,  and  to  transfer  to  them  the 
light  of  that  inspiration  which  kindled  his  own  soul,  — 
this  is  the  province  of  the  poet.  And,  to  do  this,  it  re 
quires  that  he  should  himself  possess  the  most  bound 
less  sympathy  with  human  weakness  and  human  suffer 
ing.  Some  few  matchless  spirits  there  have  been,  who 
seem  to  soar  above  human  weakness  and  human 
folly ;  who,  enthroned  in  a  majestic  serenity  of  soul,  sit 
like  monarchs  of  the  intellectual  world.  But  these, 
though  they  command  our  admiration,  cannot  win  our 
sympathy  and  love. 

"  Professor  Longfellow  has  written  more  prose  than 
poetry.  Outre-Mer  and  Hyperion  are,  however,  steeped 
in  the  poetry  of  the  writer's  thoughts :  and  the  lat 
ter  may  well  be  regarded  as  a  poem  in  every  thing 
except  the  metre ;  for  it  bears  about  the  same  analogy 
to  the  ordinary  novel,  that  Spenser's  '  Faerie  Queene  ' 
does  to  the  4  Columbiad '  of  Dwight.  In  these  volumes 
much  of  the  inner  life  of  the  student  is  unconsciously 
revealed,  embodying,  as  they  do,  the  thoughts  and  feel 
ings  of  the  scholar  who  visits  for  the  first  time  the  land 
so  rich  in  historic  recollections,  and  who  wanders  with 
rapt  enthusiasm  among  the  castled  ruins  of  the  glorious 
Rhine.  An  abler  hand  than  ours  has  already  done  jus 
tice  to  the  merits  of  Hyperion.  But  there  is  one  thought 
which  struck  us  as  peculiarly  true  and  beautiful,  and 
which  seems  to  have  escaped  the  notice  of  the  reviewer. 
It  is  this :  speaking  of  the  troubles  which  beset  the 
path  of  life,  the  author  thus  concludes :  '  The  shadows 


THE  ECLECTIC  MAGAZINE.  285 

of  the  mind  are  like  those  of  the  body :  in  the  morning 
of  life  they  all  lie  behind  us ;  at  noon  we  trample  them 
under  foot;  and  in  the  evening  they  stretch  long, 
broad,  and  deepening  before  us.  But  the  morning 
shadows  soon  fade  away  ;  while  those  of  evening  stretch 
forward  into  night,  and  mingle  with  the  coming  dark 
ness.'  The  depth  and  beauty  of  this  thought  must 
strike  the  most  careless  observer.' 

THE  ECLECTIC  MAGAZINE. 

In  The  Eclectic  Magazine   for  February,  1862,  the 
following  is  found :  — 

"  As  a  truly  popular  poet,  —  the  man  of  the  million, 
—  no  American  songster  has  obtained  such  a  favorable 
hearing  as  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.  How  it  may 
be  in  his  own  hemisphere  we  know  not,  but  certainly 
in  this  part  of  the  world  Mr.  Longfellow's  poems  have 
had  a  greater  circulation  than  those  of  all  the  other 
American  poets  together.  Possibly  it  might  be  no 
great  disgrace  even  to  be  ignorant  that  Bryant  and 
others  had  written  poetry  at  all ;  but  it  would  argue  a 
strange  isolation  from  the  world  of  letters  to  know 
nothing  of  Excelsior  and  the  Psalm  of  Life.  These, 
and  other  lyrics  from  the  same  pen,  have  been  pro 
moted  to  the  rank  of  household  words.  Young 
ladies  everywhere  sing  Excelsior  to  the  accompa 
niment  of  the  piano ;  and  promising  lads,  just  gliding 
out  of  their  teens,  are  imbued  by  thousands  with  the 
stirring  sentiments  of  the  Psalm  of  Life,  —  resolved,  at 
all  hazards,  not  to  quit  the  world  without  leaving  some 
'footprints  on  the  sands  of  time.'  Nay,  we  have  heard 
of  a  certain  minister,  better  known  as  a  popular  lec 
turer,  who  frequently  commences  his  Sabbath  worship 


286  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

with  4  Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers,'  etc.  This 
somewhat  strange  effusion,  while  in  many  quarters  re 
garded  almost  with  a  veneration  due  to  inspired  words, 
has  not  always  been  spared  from  running  the  gauntlet 
of  adverse  criticism.  There  is  no  mystery  about  the 
success  it  has  obtained.  It  has  a  certain  number  of 
pithy  aphoristic  utterances  on  the  value  of  time  and 
the  greatness  of  men's  destinies ;  and  these,  given  in 
the  full  flow  of  poetic  grandiloquence,  produce  their 
effect.  There  is  genuine  poetry  in  the  composition  ; 
though  some  of  the  lines  are  exceedingly  uncouth,  and 
the  figures  such  as  will  not  bear  much  handling.  To 
many  a  reader,  who  refuses  to  sacrifice  logic  for  sound, 
the  following  lines  are  still  a  stumbling-block :  — 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ;  — 

Footprints  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

"  How  it  is  that  these  footprints  can  make  any  per 
manent  impression  on  the  '  sands '  of  time,  how  it  is 
that  this  forlorn  brother  sailing  o'er  the  solemn  main 
can  manage  to  see  these  prints  on  the  shore,  or  what  is 
the  particular  connection  between  seeing  them  and 
taking  heart  again,  are,  we  confess,  things  not  easily 
understood.  It  is  useless,  however,  to  quarrel  with 
them  now:  the  world  has  consented  to  receive  them. 
A  more  important  question,  we  think,  remains.  What 
is  to  be  understood  by  the  lives  of  great  men  reminding 
us  that  we  may  make  our  own  lives  *  sublime  '?  Senti* 


THE  ECLECTIC  MAGAZINE.  287 

inents  like  this  have  occasioned  a  deal  of  castle-building. 
The  sophistry  that  identifies  a  sublime  life  with  a  life 
that  makes  a  great  figure  in  the  world  is  a  very  common 
snare  and  delusion.  The  true  sublime  of  life  is  to  turn 
to  the  best  account  the  means  which  Providence  has 
actually  placed  at  men's  disposal ;  and  were  this  actu 
ally  done,  all  the  world  over,  the  number  would  be  very 
small  of  those  who  were  sublime  enough  to  have  books 
written  about  them.  As  a  rule,  the  lives  of  great  men 
cannot  do  much  by  way  of  example,  whatever  they  may 
suggest  in  the  way  of  instruction ;  for  that  which  has 
made  them  great  in  the  world  is  not  imitable  by  the 
generality  of  mankind.  It  is  all  very  well  that  exam 
ples  should  be  given  of  those  who,  through  difficulties 
mostly  regarded  as  insurmountable,  have  made  their 
way  to  eminence  of  whatever  kind;  but  that  is  a  false 
and  pernicious  teaching  which  leaves  the  impression 
that,  where  what  the  world  calls  '  greatness '  is  wanting, 
—  the  sublime  of  life  is  wanting.  No  more  important 
lesson  can  be  learned  than  that  the  ordinary,  the  un- 
poetical  business  and  duties  of  every-day  life  are 
enough  to  stamp  that  life  with  its  true  greatness ;  that 

*  The  simple  round,  the  daily  task, 
Will  furnish  all  we  want  or  ask ; ' 
\ 

for  those  ordinary  duties  are  very  often  neglected  by 
many  a  precocious  aspirant  after  greatness,  whose  life 
in  consequence  exhibits  a  sad  predominance  of  the 
sublime  over  the  beautiful.  It  would  be  captious  thus 
to  dwell  on  an  occasional  poetical  extravagance,  were 
it  not  that  sentiments  of  a  false  or  doubtful  character 
are,  when  embodied  in  popular  poetry,  mischievous  in 
the  extreme.  In  Excelsior  the  leading  idea  —  that 


288  HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

progress  must  be  resolutely  maintained,  come  what 
will  —  is  unexceptionable;  and  this  moral,  conveyed 
as  it  is  in  words  of  much  force  and  beauty,  makes  us 
comparatively  indifferent  to  the  circumstantials  of  the 
tale,  which  have  in  some  quarters  been  mercilessly 
ridiculed.  'We  have  no  very  bright  example,'  it  is 
said,  'of  the  true  spirit  of  progress,  in  the  career  of 
a  hasty  and  inconsiderate  youth,  who,  at  a  very  un 
seasonable  time  of  the  night,  hurries  through  an  Alpine 
village  with  his  Excelsior  banner  in  his  hand ;  and, 
disregarding  all  manner  of  peril  from  torrent,  preci 
pice,  and  avalanche,  treads  his  way  upward,  eventually 
perishing  in  the  snow,  where  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard 
find  him  on  the  following  morning.'  This  statement 
cannot  be  gainsaid.  The  jury  at  the  coroner's  inquest 
would,  doubtless,  express  their  opinion  that  deceased 
met  his  death  from  causes  too  clearly  attributable  to 
want  of  proper  caution.  But  when  the  voice  comes 
'like  a  falling  star,'  answering  to  the  watchword  of 
the  noble  victim,  we  must  have  done  with  these  matter- 
of-fact  objections,  or  take  them  elsewhere.  No  greater 
injustice,  however,  could  be  done  to  Mr.  Longfellow 
than  that  of  testing  his  merits  as  a  poet  by  the  verses 
which  have  found  most  favor  in  the  drawing-room.  He 
is  confessedly  at  the  head  of  all  the  American  bards. 
No  other  has  written  so  much  and  so  well  in  the  main, 
although  we  can  easily  point  out  in  the  other  collec 
tions  some  single  poems  which  please  us  better  than 
any  thing  this  author  has  produced.  His  longer  pieces, 
—  Evangeline,  Hiawatha,  and  Miles  Standish,  —  his 
many  and  varied  lyrical  effusions,  and  his  translations 
from  the  German,  Spanish,  and  other  languages,  are 
scarcely  ever  below  mediocrity,  and  are  generally  of 


THE  ECLECTIC  MAGAZINE.  289 

great  excellence.  True,  his  flights  are  never  of  the 
highest  character:  he  never  rises  to  those  altitudes 
upon  the  mount  of  song  where  the  great  poets  of  the 
world  have  'based  the  pillars  of  their  imperishable 
thrones.'  On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  the  men  to  whom  the  genius  of  poesy  has  dis 
tributed  its  noblest  of  gifts  have  mostly  written  for  a 
limited  class  of  readers.  Paradise  Lost  has  never  been 
a  popular  poem ;  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  and  The  Tempest 
can  hardly  yet  be  said  '  to  take '  with  the  people.  Ten 
nyson's  poetry  is  not  for  the  million ;  and  Wordsworth 
is  still  'like  a  star,  dwelling  apart.'  It  may  be  said, 
in  reply  to  this,  that  poets  of  less  caliber  are  not  much 
complimented  by  being  told  that  their  popularity  is 
mainly  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  best  poetry  is  not 
the  most  highly  appreciated ;  and  this  may  be  granted. 
But  there  is  another  side  to  the  story. 

"  To  gain  the  ear,  to  stir  the  pulses,  to  delight  the 
imagination,  of  the  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands 
on  whom  the  highest  efforts  of  poetic  genius  are  com 
paratively  lost,  is  no  mean  triumph.  Mr.  Longfellow 
has  done  this.  His  pages  are  everywhere  instinct  with 
life,  beauty,  and  grace.  Seldom  very  sublime,  seldom 
very  pathetic,  —  for  the  cast  of  his  mind  is,  on  the 
whole,  gleesome  and  joyous,  —  no  writer  exhibits  a 
better  combination  of  those  general  qualities  which 
make  poetry  pleasant  and  lovable.  The  healthful  and 
breezy  freshness  of  nature  is  on  all  his  productions  ; 
and  in  the  rich  and  teeming  variety  of  his  muse  we 
have  the  results  of  that  passion  for  the  fair  and  bright 
things  of  the  present  and  the  past,  so  well  described  in 
his  own  Prelude." 

19 


290  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

PRESIDENT  C.   C.  FELTON. 

President  Cornelius  Conway  Felton  of  Harvard 
University,  in  reviewing  Ballads  and  Other  Poems  in 
The  North-American  Review  for  July,  1842,  said,  — 

"  Mr.  Longfellow's  profound  knowledge  of  German 
literature  has  given  a  very  perceptible  tincture  to  his 
poetical  style.  It  bears  the  romantic  impress,  as  distin 
guished  from  the  classical,  though  at  the  same  time  it  is 
marked  by  a  classical  severity  of  taste.  Nothing  can 
exceed  the  exquisite  finish  of  some  of  his  smaller  pieces, 
while  they  also  abound  in  that  richness  of  expression 
and  imagery  which  the  romantic  muse  is  supposed  to 
claim  as  her  more  especial  attribute.  The  melody  of 
his  versification  is  very  remarkable  :  some  of  his  stanzas 
sound  with  the  richest  and  sweetest  music  of  which 
language  is  capable.  It  is  unnecessary  to  illustrate  this 
remark  by  quotations:  the  memories  of  all  readers  of 
poetry  involuntarily  retain  them.  In  the  range  of 
American  poetry,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  any  that 
is  so  readily  remembered,  that  has  sunk  so  deeply  into 
the  hearts  of  the  people,  and  that  so  spontaneously  rises 
to  the  speaker's  tongue  in  the  pulpit  and  the  lecture- 
room." 

THE  PENN  MONTHLY. 

The  Peiin  Monthly  for  February,  1874,  said,  in 
speaking  of  Aftermath,  "It  is  a  common  fault  among 
writers  of  a  certain  order,  that  when  they  have  attained 
to  a  recognized  excellence  in  their  art,  they  are  willing, 
under  cover  of  their  reputation,  to  produce  works  that 
are  unworthy  of  it.  ... 

"  Without  supposing  for  a  moment  that  Mr.  Long 
fellow  has  any  thing  in  common  with  this  set,  we  wish 


THE  PENN  MONTHLY.  291 

that  he  would  not  act  so  much  like  them.  In  other 
words,  we  would  be  glad  to  have  him  explain  the 
raison  d  'etre  of  this  last  volume  of  poems.  It  cannot  be 
that  he  thinks  that  he  had  any  thing  new  to  say,  for  he 
has  not  said  it ;  and  it  is  hardly  possible  that  he  believes 
that  the  tones  of  his  'one  clear  harp,'  which  have 
echoed  so  long  in  our  ears,  will  bear  continual  rever 
beration.  Mr.  Longfellow  must  compose  with  the  as 
surance  that  whatever  he  writes  will  be  eagerly  read  by 
the  people  of  both  hemispheres,  in  whose  hearts  he  is 
so  safely  enthroned  that  no  one  but  himself  can  dethrone 
him ;  and  the  consciousness  of  this  fact  should  make 
him  very  critical.  We,  for  our  part,  have  so  often  seen 
his  kindly  face  in  his  charming  poems,  and,  we  may  add, 
his  poetry  in  his  kindly  face,  that  the  associations  there 
with  are  among  the  last  that  we  should  part  with. 
Indeed,  there  is  no  poet  of  the  day  so  popular.  He  is 
translated  into  as  many  languages  as  he  has  translated. 
He  is  the  most  frequently  read  of  foreign  verse-writers 
in  Germany,  for  his  lines  are  brimming  with  the  simpli 
city  and  sentiment  that  the  Germans  have  learned  to 
love  in  their  own  poets.  His  charms  have  long  since 
broken  down  the  stiff  barriers  of  English  prejudice, 
and  in  the  first  cheap  edition  of  standard  poets  pub 
lished  in  England  (the  Chandos  Classics)  he  comes 
second  in  order  after  their  own  Shakspeare.  He  is 
described  in  the  preface  as  4  the  American  writer,  whose 
poems  are  as  household  words  in  English  homes,  and 
whose  genius  has  naturalized  him  in  our  land ; '  and  his 
poetical  works  may  be  bought  to-day  in  London,  arid 
are  bought,  in  good  clear  type,  for  the  small  sum  of 
nineperice.  Our  chiefest  dread,  then,  in  reading  After 
math,  is  that  the  position  which  he  has  acquired  among 


292  HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

us,  and  which  we  would  protect  from  even  his  own 
assaults,  may  be  thus  by  himself  materially  affected. 
For  if  it  be  shown  that  the  secret  which  produced  the 
many  beautiful  poems  that  gush  from  his  heart  with 
the  freshness  of  sunshiny  April  showers  from  the  sky, 
and  whose  power  over  us  we  ever  love  to  acknowledge, 
is  indeed  no  secret,  but  a  'knack,'  and  that  the  sym 
pathy  and  comfort  in  the  gentle  rhythmical  flow  of  his 
verses  may  be  served  up  to  order  in  lines  of  seven  and 
six,  —  if  such  a  dreadful  revelation  is  in  store  for  us, 
then,  as  Tiny  Tim  says,  '  God  bless  us  every  one  ! ' : 

DR.  O.  W.  HOLMES. 

Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  in  a  masterly  address 
before  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society,  of  which 
Longfellow  was  a  member,  spoke  with  keen  and  deli 
cate  discrimination  of  the  writings  of  his  brother-poet 
and  friend :  — 

"  From  the  first  notes  of  his  fluent  and  harmonious 
song  to  the  last,  which  comes  to  us  as  the  '  voice  fell 
like  a  falling  star,'  there  has  never  been  a  discord.  The 
music  of  the  mountain-stream  in  the  poem  which 
reaches  us  from  the  other  shore  of  life  is  as  clear  and 
sweet  as  the  melodies  of  the  youthful  and  middle 
periods  of  his  minstrelsy.  It  has  been  a  fully  rounded 
life  ;  beginning  early  with  large  promise,  equalling  every 
anticipation  in  its  maturity,  fertile  and  beautiful  to  its 
close  in  the  ripeness  of  its  well-filled  years." 

Speaking  of  the  simplicity  of  Longfellow's  style,  he 
continued :  — 

"In  respect  of  this  simplicity  and  naturalness,  his 
style  is  in  strong  contrast  to  that  of  many  writers  of 
our  time.  There  is  no  straining  for  effect,  there  is  no 


DE.    O.    W.   HOLMES.  293 

torturing  of  rhythm  for  novel  patterns,  no  wearisome 
iteration  of  petted  words,  no  inelegant  clipping  of  syl 
lables  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  a  verse,  no  affected 
archaism,  rarely  any  liberty  taken  with  language,  un 
less  it  may  be  in  the  form  of  a  few  words  in  the  trans 
lation  of.  Dante. 

"  Although  Longfellow  was  not  fond  of  metrical  con 
tortions  and  acrobatic  achievements,  he  well  knew  the 
effects  of  skilful  variation  in  the  forms  of  verse  and 
well-managed  refrains  or  repetitions.  In  one  of  his 
earlier  poems  ('Pleasant  it  was  when  woods  were 
green '),  the  dropping  a  syllable  from  the  last  line  is  an 
agreeable  surprise  to  the  ear,  expecting  only  the  com 
mon  monotony  of  scrupulously  balanced  lines.  In  Ex 
celsior,  the  repetition  of  the  aspiring  exclamation  which 
gives  its  name  to  the  poem  lifts  every  stanza  a  step 
higher  than  the  one  which  preceded  it.  In  The  Old 
Clock  on  the  Stairs,  the  solemn  words, '  Forever  —  never, 
Never  —  forever,'  give  wonderful  effectiveness  to  that 
most  impressive  poem. 

"  I  suppose  if  the  great  multitude  of  readers  were  to 
render  a  decision  as  to  which  of  Longfellow's  poems 
they  most  valued,  the  Psalm  of  Life  would  command 
the  largest  number.  This  is  a  brief  homily,  enforcing 
the  great  truths  of  duty,  and  of  our  relation  to  the 
Eternal  and  Invisible.  Next  in  order  would  very  prob 
ably  come  Excelsior,  a  poem  that  springs  upward  like 
a  flame,  and  carries  the  soul  up  with  it  in  its  aspiration 
for  the  unattainable  ideal.  If  this  sounds  like  a  trum« 
pet-call  to  the  fiery  energies  of  youth,  not  less  does  the 
still,  small  voice  of  that  most  sweet  and  tender  poem, 


294  1IENEY   WADSWOETII  LONGFELLOW. 

Resignation,  appeal  to  the  sensibilities  of  those  who 
have  lived  long  enough  to  have  known  the  bitterness 
of  such  a  bereavement  as  that  out  of  which  grew  the 
poem.  Or  take  a  poem  before  referred  to,  The  Old 
Clock  on  the  Stairs ;  and  in  it  we  find  the  history  of 
innumerable  households  told  in  relating  the  history  of 
one,  and  the  solemn  burden  of  the  song  repeats  itself 
to  thousands  of  listening  readers  as  if  the  beat  of  the 
pendulum  were  throbbing  at  the  head  of  every  stair 
case.  Such  poems  as  these  — and  there  are  many 
more  of  not  unlike  character  —  are  the  foundation  of 
that  universal  acceptance  his  writings  obtain  among  all 
classes.  But  for  these  appeals  to  universal  sentiment, 
his  readers  would  have  been  confined  to  a  comparatively 
small  circle  of  educated  and  refined  readers.  There 
are  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  who  are  familiar 
with  what  we  might  call  his  household  poems,  who 
have  never  read  The  Spanish  Student,  The  Golden 
Legend,  Hiawatha,  or  even  Evangeline.  Again,  ask 
the  first  schoolboy  you  meet  which  of  Longfellow's 
poems  he  likes  best,  and  he  will  ba  very  likely  to 
answer,  Paul  Revere's  Ride.  When  he  is  a  few  years 
older  he  might  perhaps  say,  The  Building  of  the  Ship, 
that  admirably  constructed  poem,  beginning  with  the 
literal  description,  passing  into  the  higher  region  of 
sentiment  by  the  most  natural  of  transitions,  and  end 
ing  with  the  noble  climax, 

'  Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  ! ' 

which  has  become  the  classical  expression  of  patriotic 
emotion. 

"  Nothing  lasts  like  a  coin  and  a  lyric.     Long  after  the 
dwellings  of  men  have  disappeared,  when  their  temples 


D$.    fi.    W.   HOLMES.  295 

are  in  ruins,  and  all  their  works  of  art  are  shattered, 
the  ploughman  strikes  an  earthen  vessel  holding  the 
golden  and  silver  disks  on  which  the  features  of  a  dead 
monarch,  with  emblems,  it  may  be,  betraying  the  beliefs 
or  the  manners,  the  rudeness  or  the  finish  of  art,  and 
all  which  this  implies,  survive  an  extinct  civilization. 
Pope  has  expressed  this  with  his  usual  Horatian  felicity 
in  the  letter  to  Addison  on  the  publication  of  his  little 
Treatise  on  Coins,  — 

'  A  small  Euphrates  through  the  piece  is  rolled, 
And  little  eagles  wave  their  wings  in  gold.' 

Conquerors  and  conquered  sink  in  common  oblivion ; 
triumphal  arches,  pageants  the  world  wonders  at,  all  that 
trumpeted  itself  as  destined  to  an  earthly  immortality, 
pass  away ;  the  victor  of  a  hundred  battles  is  dust,  the 
parchments  or  papyrus  on  which  his  deeds  were  written 
are  shrivelled  and  decayed  and  gone, 

'  And  all  his  triumphs  shrink  into  a  coin.' 

So  it  is  with  a  lyric  poem.  One  happy  utterance  of 
some  emotion  or  expression  which  comes  home  to  all 
may  keep  a  name  remembered  when  the  race  to  which 
the  singer  belonged  exists  no  longer.  The  cradle-song 
of  Danae  to  her  infant  as  they  tossed  on  the  waves  in 
the  imprisoning  chest  has  made  the  name  of  Simonides 
immortal.  Our  own  English  literature  abounds  with 
instances  which  illustrate  the  same  fact  so  far  as  the 
experience  of  a  few  generations  extends.  And  I  think 
we  may  venture  to  say  that  some  of  the  shorter  poems 
of  Longfellow  must  surely  reach  a  remote  posterity, 
and  be  considered  then,  as  now,  ornaments  to  English 
literature.  We  may  compare  them  with  the  best  short 
poems  of  the  language  without  fearing  that  they  will 


296  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

suffer.  Scott,  cheerful,  wholesome,  unreflective,  should 
be  read  in  the  open  air;  Byron,  the  poet  of  malcon 
tents  and  cynics,  in  a  prison-cell;  Burns,  generous, 
impassioned,  manly,  social,  in  the  tavern-hall;  Moore, 
elegant,  fastidious,  full  of  melody,  scented  with  the 
volatile  perfume  of  the  Eastern  gardens  in  which  his 
fancy  revelled,  is  pre-eminently  the  poet  of  the  draw 
ing-room  and  the  piano ;  Longfellow,  thoughtful,  mu 
sical,  home-loving,  busy  with  the  lessons  of  life,  which 
he  was  ever  studying,  and  loved  to  teach  others,  finds 
his  charmed  circle  of  listeners  by  the  fireside.  His 
songs,  which  we  might  almost  call  sacred  ones,  rarely, 
if  ever,  get  into  the  hymn-books.  They  are  too  broadly 
human  to  suit  the  specialized  tastes  of  the  sects,  which 
often  think  more  of  their  differences  from  each  other 
than  of  the  common  ground  on  which  they  can  agree. 

"  Shall  we  think  less  of  our  poet  because  he  aimed  in 
his  verse  not  simply  to  please,  but  also  to  impress  some 
elevating  thought  on  the  minds  of  his  readers  ?  The 
Psalms  of  King  David  are  burning  with  religious  de 
votion  and  full  of  weighty  counsel ;  but  they  are  not 
less  valued,  certainly,  than  the  poems  of  Omar  Khayyam, 
which  cannot  be  accused  of  too  great  a  tendency  to 
find  a  useful  lesson  in  their  subject.  Dennis,  the  fa 
mous  critic,  found  fault  with  The  Rape  of  the  Lock 
because  it  had  no  moral.  It  is  not  necessary  that  a 
poem  should  carry  a  moral,  any  more  than  that  a  pic 
ture  of  a  Madonna  should  always  be  an  altar-piece. 
The  poet  himself  is  the  best  judge  of  that  in  each  par 
ticular  case.  In  that  charming  little  poem  of  Words 
worth's  ending, 

*  And  then  my  heart  with  rapture  thrills, 
dances  with  the  daffodils/ 


FRANCIS  H.    UNDERWOOD.  297 

we  do  not  ask  for  any  thing  more  than  the  record  of  the 
impression  which  is  told  so  simply,  and  which  justifies 
itself  by  the  way  in  which  it  is  told.  But  who  does 
not  feel  with  the  poet  that  the  touching  story,  Hart- 
leap  Well,  must  have  its  lesson  brought  out  distinctly 
to  give  a  fitting  close  to  the  narrative  ?  Who  would 
omit  those  two  lines  — 

'  Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 
With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  lives '  ? 

No  poet  knows  better  than  Longfellow  how  to  impress 
a  moral  without  seeming  to  preach.  Didactic  verse,  as 
such,  is  no  doubt  a  formidable  visitation ;  but  a  cathe 
dral  has  its  lesson  to  teach,  as  well  as  a  schoolhouse. 
These  beautiful  medallions  of  verse  which  Longfellow 
has  left  us  might  possibly  be  found  fault  with  as  con 
veying  too  much  useful  and  elevating  truth  in  their 
legends  ;  having  the  unartistic  aim  of  being  serviceable 
as  well  as  delighting  by  their  beauty.  Let  us  leave 
such  comment  to  the  critics  who  cannot  handle  a  golden 
coin  fresh  from  the  royal  mint  without  clipping  its 
edges,  and  stamping  their  own  initials  on  its  face." 

FRANCIS  H.  UNDERWOOD. 

Mr.  Francis  H.  Underwood  has  thus  spoken  of  sev 
eral  of  Longfellow's  poems  :  "  The  poems,  Voices  of  the 
Night,  about  the  earliest  of  his  writings,  though  not  the 
first  printed,  really  formed  the  turning-point  of  his 
career.  He  has  written  greater  poems,  and  had  after 
ward  a  wider  education ;  but  he  never  wrote  any  thing 
more  characteristic  of  his  genius  and  of  his  judgment 
than  those  early  poems.  They  have  become  current  as 
proverbs ;  the  lines  are  interchangeable,  like  fragments 


298  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

of  Shakspeare ;  they  are  current  as  coin  in  conversa 
tion  ;  they  are,  and  they  will  remain,  a  gospel  of  good 
will  and  good  music ;  they  were  written,  not  for  admira 
tion,  but  for  the  hearts  of  the  people,  and  have  become 
heart  treasures."  Referring  to  Longfellow's  participa 
tion  in  public  affairs,  Mr.  Underwood  said  the  poet  was 
probably  never  seen  on  the  platform  at  any  anti-slavery 
meeting,  yet  his  anti-slavery  poems  gave  all  the  influ 
ence  of  his  mind  and  character  on  that  subject.  The 
Arsenal  at  Springfield  was  written  very  shortly  after 
Mr.  Sumner  had  delivered  his  oration  on  The  True 
Grandeur  of  Nations;  and  Paul  Revere's  Ride  was 
written  in  January,  1861,  three  months  before  the  at 
tack  on  Fort  Sumter;  arid  both  of  these  were  written 
to  have  an  influence  upon  the  public  mind  in  regard  to 
slavery  and  the  impending  war. 

EDITH  M.   THOMAS. 

In  The  Critic  for  April  22,  1882,  Edith  M.  Thomas 
said:  "Have  not  astronomers  told  us  that  certain  re 
mote  stars  are  already  stricken  from  the  firmament  V 
And  yet,  because  their  light  is  still  coining,  their  lamps 
nightly  re-appearing  in  the  roof  of  heaven,  we  will  not 
believe  in  their  annihilation.  How  can  we  credit  the 
cold  .fact  of  mortality  while  the  poet's  starlight  still 
reaches  us?  It  seems  to  us  that  never,  in  all  his  long 
ministry  of  song,  has  Longfellow  been  so  clearly  pres 
ent,  so  vividly  alive,  to  the  eyes  of  the  heart  and  the 
imagination,  as  in  the  few  days  since  his  death.  In 
many  and  diverse  circles  his  verse  has  been  re-read,  and 
found  to  be  wondrously  eloquent  of  the  author  him 
self,  —  authentic  spiritual  autobiography,  not  before  re 
vealed,  and  not  to  be  revealed  except  under  the  light 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK  BULLETIN.  299 

of  the  inverted  torch.  New  pathos  and  beauty  are  dis 
covered  in  such  lyrics  as  The  Bridge ;  an  added  deli 
cacy  and  grace  in  such  poems  as  Endymion ;  and  the 
chords  struck  in  The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine  vibrate 
with  more  resonance  and  sweetness  when  we  accept 
them  as  the  embodied  music  of  a  life  so  fair,  high- 
purposed,  and  trustful  as  Longfellow's.  Remembering 
his  parable  of  The  Singers,  could  it  not  be  said  that  he 
united  in  himself  the  several  missions  of  that  God-sent 
triad,  '  to  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach '  ?  for  his 
voice  had  been  heard  in  youth,  in  his  strong  prime,  and 
in  his  harmonious  old  age.  .  .  . 

"  The  4  slender  reeds  of  song '  have  always  bent  with 
love  and  reverence  in  the  direction  of  this  strong  pillar 
in  the  temple  of  American  literature.  If  the  truth  were 
told,  doubtless  every  one  of  the  younger  brood  of  poets 
would  confess  that  he  had  long  anticipated  the  deserved 
red-letter  day  when  he  should  be  permitted  to  touch  the 
old  poet's  kindly  hand,  to  gaze  in  that  face, 

*  Whose  looks  increased 
The  silvery  setting  of  his  mortal  star.' 

Where  this  privilege  has  been  granted,  'what  Long^ 
fellow  said '  has  been  passed  on  from  one  custodian  to 
another  as  a  sort  of  sacred  oral  tradition,  just  as  in  old 
time  the  oracle  may  have  been  forwarded  from  Delphi 
to  some  far  outpost  of  Thule." 

THE  BOSTON  BOOK  BULLETIN. 

Says  a  contributor  to  The  Boston  Book  Bulletin, 
"In  his  home  his  hospitality  was  proverbial.  Bret 
Harte  has  called  him  the  ideal  poet,  and  he  was  ideal 
host  as  well.  His  gentle  tact  and  exquisite  courtesy 


300  HEN  BY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

remind  one  of  that  fine  compliment  paid  to  Villemand, 
—  which  is  a  fine  definition  of  politeness,  — c  When  he 
spoke  to  a  lady,  one  would  think  he  had  offered  her  a 
bouquet.' 

"  He  was  emphatically  the  poet  of  the  beautiful,  and 
his  life  was  as  rounded  and  complete  as  one  of  his  own 
sonnets,  or  a  Beethoven  symphony.  He  was  not  one 
of  those  great  men  who  must  be  seen  like  an  oil-paint 
ing,  at  a  distance ;  but  the  nearer  one  approached,  the 
finer  showed  the  outlines  and  shadings  of  his  character. 
Success  did  not  make  him  indifferent  to  the  aspirations 
of  the  unknown.  The  young  poet  who  went  to  Long 
fellow  with  his  verses  needed  not  to  fear  a  cold  recep 
tion  nor  an  indifferent  listener.  Sympathy  he  would 
surely  find ;  and  also,  did  his  verses  contain  one  glim 
mer  of  the  sacred  fire,  that  encouragement  for  want  of 
which  many  a  young  genius  has  been  stifled. 

uHe  was  to  the  last  an  earnest  worker,  composing 
with  great  care.  Time  took  from  him  only  the  gold  of 
his  hair  and  the  smoothness  of  his  brow,  and  gave  him 
year  by  year  added  grace  and  sweetness  and  strength. 
Wide-spread  as  his  influence  was,  yet  his  mission  is  but 
begun ;  for,  as  long  as  the  heart  of  humanity  shall  beat, 
his  voice  will  be  heard  in  tones  of  music,  singing  words 
of  consolation  and  hope." 

PROFESSOR  C.  E.  NORTON. 

In  his  address  before  the  Massachusetts  Historical 
Society,  Professor  Charles  Eliot  Norton  said,  "  The 
accord  between  the  character  and  life  of  Mr.  Longfel 
low  and  his  poems  was  complete.  His  poetry  touched 
the  hearts  of  his  readers  because  it  was  the  sincere  ex 
pression  of  his  awn.  The  sweetness,  the  gentleness,  the 


PROFESSOR   C.    E.    NORTON.  301 

grace,  the  purity,  the  humanity,  of  his  verse,  were  the 
image  of  his  own  soul.  But,  beautiful  and  ample  as 
this  expression  of  himself  was,  it  fell  short  of  the  truth. 
The  man  was  more  and  better  than  the  poet.  .  .  . 

"  Intimate,  however,  as  was  the  concord  between  the 
poet  and  his  poetry,  there  was  much  in  him  to  which 
he  never  gave  utterance  in  words.  He  was  a  man  of 
deep  reserves.  He  kept  the  holy  of  holies  within  him 
self,  sacred  and  secluded.  Seldom  does  he  admit  his 
readers  to  even  its  outward  precincts.  The  deepest 
experiences  of  life  are  too  sacred  to  be  shared  with  any 
one  whatsoever.  '  There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not 
speak,'  he  says  in  one  of  the  most  personal  of  his  poems. 

'  Whose  hand  shall  dare  to  open  and  explore 
Those  volumes  closed  and  clasped  f orevermore  ? 
Not  mine.     With  reverential  feet  I  pass.' 

"  It  was  the  felicity  of  Mr.  Longfellow  to  share  the 
sentiment  and  emotion  of  his  coevals,  and  to  succeed 
in  giving  to  them  their  apt  poetic  expression.  It  was 
not  by  depth  of  thought,  or  by  original  views  of  nature, 
that  he  won  his  place  in  the  world's  regard;  but  it  was 
by  sympathy  with  the  feelings  common  to  good  men 
and  women  everywhere,  and  by  the  simple,  direct,  sin 
cere,  and  delicate  expression  of  them,  that  he  gained  the 
affection  of  mankind. 

"He  was  fortunate  in  the  time  of  his  birth.  He 
grew  up  in  the  morning  of  our  Republic.  He  shared  in 
the  cheerfulness  of  the  early  hour,  in  its  hopefulness, 
its  confidence.  The  years  of  his  youth  and  early  man 
hood  coincided  with  an  exceptional  moment  of  national 
life,  in  which  a  prosperous  and  unembarrassed  democ 
racy  was  learning  its  own  capacities,  and  was  beginning 


802     HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

to  realize  its  large  and  novel  resources,  —  in  which  the 
order  of  society  was  still  simple  and  humane.  He  be 
came,  more  than  any  one  else,  the  voice  of  this  epoch  of 
national  progress,  an  epoch  of  unexampled  prosperity 
for  the  masses  of  mankind  in  our  new  world,  —  prosperity 
from  which  sprang  a  sense,  more  general  and  deeper 
than  had  ever  before  been  felt,  of  human  kindliness  and 
brotherhood.  But,  even  to  the  prosperous,  life  brings 
its  inevitable  burden.  Trial,  sorrow,  misfortune,  are 
not  to  be  escaped  by  the  happiest  of  men.  The  deepest 
experiences  of  each  individual  are  the  experiences  com 
mon  to  the  whole  race.  And  it  is  this  double  aspect 
of  American  life, — its  novel  and  happy  conditions, 
with  the  genial  spirit  resulting  from  them,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  its  subjection  to  the  old,  absolute,  universal 
laws  of  existence,  —  that  finds  its  mirror  and  manifes 
tation  in  Longfellow's  poetry.  .  .  . 

"  No  one  can  read  his  poetry  without  a  conviction  of 
the  simplicity,  tenderness,  gentleness,  and  humanity  of 
the  poet.  And  we  who  were  his  friends  know  how 
these  qualities  shone  in  his  daily  conversation.  Praise, 
applause,  flattery,  —  and  no  man  ever  was  exposed  to 
more  of  them,  —  never  touched  him  to  harm  him.  He 
walked  through  their  flames  unscathed,  as  Dante 
through  the  fires  of  purgatory.  His  modesty  was  per 
fect.  He  accepted  the  praise  as  he  would  have  ac 
cepted  any  other  pleasant  gift,  —  glad  of  it  as  an 
expression  of  good-will,  but  without  personal  elation. 
Indeed,  he  had  too  much  of  it,  and  often  in  an  absurd 
and  trying  form,  not  to  become  at  times  weary  of  what 
his  own  fame  and  virtues  brought  upon  him.  But  his 
kindliness  did  not  permit  him  to  show  his  weariness  to 
those  who  did  but  burden  him  with  their  admiration. 


THE  LONDON  ECHO.  303 

It  was  the  penalty  of  his  genius,  and  he  accepted  it  with 
the  pleasantest  temper  and  a  humorous  resignation. 
Bores  of  all  nations,  especially  of  our  own,  persecuted 
him.  His  long-suffering  patience  was  a  wonder  to  his 
friends.  It  was,  in  truth,  the  sweetest  charity.  No 
man  was  ever  before  so  kind  to  these  moral  mendi 
cants." 

THE  LONDON  ECHO. 

Longfellow's  patriotism  was  commented  on  by  The 
London  Echo,  March  25,  1882,  as  follows :  "  Perhaps 
one  of  the  chief  reasons  of  Longfellow's  fame  on  this 
side  the  ocean  is  that  he  was  less  national  than  some 
of  his  distinguished  compeers,  such  as  Whittle!  and 
Lowell.  And  yet  he  was  no  lukewarm  patriot.  While 
as  yet  it  was  regarded  as  almost  treason  to  the  Common 
wealth  to  denounce  the  sum  of  all  villanies,  as  far  back 
as  1843,  he  published  his  Poems  on  Slavery,  in  one  of 
which,  with  almost  prophetic  foresight,  he  compared  the 
African  race  in  America  to  that  poor  blind  slave  of 
Gaza,  the  scoff  and  jest  of  all,  in  whose  fall  thousands 
perished.  The  great  civil  war  did  not  kindle  in  him 
the  passionate  enthusiasm  that  inspired  the  chief  anti- 
slavery  poets ;  but  he  took  occasion,  on  the  destruction 
of  the  Cumberland,  to  pay  a  tribute  to  the  brave  men 
who  died  in  her,  and  to  predict,  in  the  dark  hours  of 
Northern  defeat,  that  the  old  flag  should  yet  once  more 
float  4  without  a  Scjam.'  It  seems  strange  that  American 
poets  should  revert  so  sparingly  to  the  Revolutionary 
period  of  which  they  are  so  proud.  Longfellow  has 
done  so  only  once,  in  the  spirited  story  of  Paul  Revere's 
Ride ;  but  even  here  he  avoids  the  blood  and  smoke  of 
battle,  and  the  fury  of  national  passion.  It  was  not  in 
him  to  hate.  He  could  not  hate  even  the  Evil  One. 


304  HENEY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

In  The  Golden  Legend  he  has  created  the  least  devilish 
devil  that  ever  the  heart  of  man  conceived,  and  then 
closes  the  book  with  the  eminently  optimist  and  charita 
ble  conclusion,  that, '  since  God  suffers  him  to  be,  he,  too, 
is  God's  minister,  and  labors  for  some  good  by  us  not 
understood." 

RELIGIOUS  ATTITUDE. 

At  the  close  of  the  biographical  portion  of  this  vol 
ume  were  quoted  opinions  of  various  persons  upon  the 
religious  attitude  of  Mr.  Longfellow.  The  great  hu 
manitarian  poets  are  always  broader  than  all  sects: 
they  include  such  sects  in  the  scope  and  range  of  their 
sympathies.  Hence  they  are  claimed  by  the  most  radi 
cally  antagonistic  thinkers.  It  is  known  to  the  writer 
that  Mr.  Longfellow  expressed  to  an  eminent  Harvard 
instructor  his  strong  disapproval  of  the  invitation  ex 
tended  to  the  Rev.  Phillips  Brooks,  D.D.,  to  become 
preacher  at  the  Harvard-College  Chapel,  on  the  ground 
that  he  was  not  a  Unitarian. 

The  Rev.  George  Zabriskie  Gray,  D.D.,  dean  of  the 
Episcopal  Theological  School  in  Cambridge,  said  in  a 
recent  sermon  :  "  He  was  a  Christian  poet.  Though 
not  of  our  particular  fold,  yet  his  influence  was  cast, 
through  all  his  long  career,  on  the  side  of  our  precious 
faith.  .  .  .  Some  years  ago  he  met  Dr.  Stone  in  front 
of  St.  John's  Memorial  Chapel,  and  said,  4 1  never  pass 
your  grounds,  and  this  chapel,  without  thinking  of  the 
words  of  the  benediction  in  the  prayer-book,  u  The 
peace  of  God  which  passeth  all  understanding." 

Mr.  Longfellow's  residence  almost  adjoined  St.  John's 
Chapel ;  and  in  it  were  baptized  his  two  grandchildren, 
on  which  occasion  he  was  present,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Phillips 


20 


306  HENEY    WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 

Brooks  standing  as  their  godfather.     He  has  made  the 
chapel  famous  by  a  beautiful  sonnet  beginning,  — 

"  I  stand  beneath  the  tree  whose  branches  shade 
Thy  western  window,  Chapel  of  St.  John, 
And  hear  its  leaves  repeat  their  benison 
On  him  whose  hands  thy  stones  memorial  laid." 


POETS1  TEIBUTES. 


"  Garlands  upon  his  grave, 

And  flowers  upon  his  hearse, 
And  to  the  tender  heart  and  true 
The  tribute  of  this  verse."  — LONGFELLOW. 


TO  H.  W.  L. 

(On  his  birthday,  27th  February,  1867.) 

I  NEED  not  praise  the  sweetness  of  his  song, 

Where  limpid  verse  to  limpid  verse  succeeds 
Smooth  as  our  Charles,  when,  fearing  lest  he  wrong 
The  new  moon's  mirrored  skiff,  he  slides  along, 
Full  without  noise,  and  whispers  in  his  reeds. 

With  loving  breath  of  all  the  winds  his  name 

Is  blown  about  the  world ;  but  to  his  friends 
A  sweeter  secret  hides  behind  his  fame, 
And  Love  steals  shyly  through  the  loud  acclaim 
To  murmur  a  God  bless  you  !  and  there  ends. 

As  I  muse  backward  up  the  checkered  years 
Wherein  so  much  was  given,  so  much  was  lost, 

Blessings  in  both  kinds,  such  as  cheapen  tears,  — 

But  hush !  this  is  not  for  prof aner  ears : 
Let  them  drink  molten  pearls  nor  dream  the  cost 

Some  suck  up  poison  from  a  sorrow's  core, 

As  nought  but  nightshade  grew  upon  earth's  grouiu" 
Love  turned  all  his  to  heart' s-ease;  and  the  more 
Fate  tried  his  bastions,  she  but  forced  a  door 
Leading  to  sweeter  manhood  and  more  sound. 

30, 


308  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Even  as  a  wind-waved  fountain's  swaying  shade 

Seems  of  mixed  race,  a  gray  wraith  shot  with  sun, 
So  through  his  trial  faith  translucent  rayed 
Till  darkness,  half  disnatured  so,  betrayed 
A  heart  of  sunshine  that  would  fain  o'errun. 

Surely  if  skill  in  song  the  shears  may  stay, 

And  of  its  purpose  cheat  the  charmed  abyss, 
If  our  poor  life  be  lengthened  by  a  lay, 
He  shall  not  go,  although  his  presence  may, 
And  the  next  uge  in  praise  shall  double  this. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LowELL.1 


LONGFELLOW. 

(Dead  March  24,  1882.) 

ALONE,  at  night,  he  heard  them  sigh,  — 
These  wild  March  winds  that  beat  his  tomb,  • 

Alone,  at  night,  from  those  that  die 
He  sought  one  ray  to  light  his  gloom. 

And  still  he  heard  the  night  winds  moan, 
And  still  the  mystery  closed  him  round, 

And  still  the  darkness  cold  and  lone 
Sent  forth  no  ray,  returned  no  sound. 

But  Time  at  last  the  answer  brings ; 

And  he,  past  all  our  suns  and  snows, 
At  rest  with  peasants  and  with  kings, 

Like  them  the  wondrous  secret  knows. 

Alone,  at  night,  we  hear  them  sigh,  — 
These  wild  March  winds  that  stir  his  pall; 

And  helpless,  wandering,  lost,  we  cry 
To  his  dim  ghost,  to  tell  us  all. 

He  loved  us  while  he  lingered  here : 
We  loved  him  —  never  love  more  true ! 

He  will  not  leave,  in  doubt  and  fear, 
The  human  grief  that  once  he  knew, 

1  Printed  with  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Oo. 


POETS'    TRIBUTES.  SOB 

For  never  yet  was  born  the  day 

When,  faint  of  heart  and  weak  of  limb, 
One  suffering  creature  turned  away, 

Unhelped,  unsoothed,  uncheered  by  him! 

But  still  through  darkness,  dense  and  bleak, 
The  winds  of  March  moan  wildly  round ; 

And  still  we  feel  that  all  we  seek 
Ends  in  that  sigh  of  vacant  sound. 

He  cannot  tell  us  —  none  can  tell 

What  waits  behind  the  mystic  veil ! 
Yet  he  who  lived  and  died  so  well, 

In  that,  perchance,  has  told  the  tale. 

Not  to  the  wastes  of  Nature  drift  — 

Else  were  this  world  an  evil  dream  — 
The  crown  and  soul  of  Nature's  gift, 

By  Avon  or  by  Charles's  stream. 

His  heart  was  pure,  his  purpose  high, 

His  thought  serene,  his  patience  vast: 
He  put  all  strifes  of  passion  by, 

And  lived  to  God  from  first  to  last. 

His  song  was  like  the  pine-tree's  sigh 

At  midnight  o'er  a  poet's  grave, 
Or  like  the  sea-bird's  distant  cry, 

Borne  far  across  the  twilight  wave. 

There  is  no  flower  of  meek  delight, 

There  is  no  star  of  heavenly  pride, 
That  shines  not  sweeter  and  more  bright 

Because  he  lived,  loved,  sang,  and  died. 

Wild  winds  of  March,  his  requiem  sing! 

Weep  o'er  him,  April's  sorrowing  skies! 
Till  come  the  tender  flowers  of  Spring, 

To  deck  the  pillow  where  he  lies; 

Till  violets  pour  their  purple  flood. 

That  wandering  myrtle  shall  not  lack, 
And,  royal  with  the  Summer's  blood, 

The  roses  that  he  loved  come  back: 


310  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

Till  all  that  Nature  gives  of  light, 

To  rift  the  gloom  and  point  the  way, 
Shall  sweetly  pierce  our  mortal  night, 

And  symbol  his  immortal  day! 

WILLIAM  WINTER,  in  The  New  York  Tribune. 

THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILDREN. 

WITH  a  glory  of  winter  sunshine 

Over  his  locks  of  gray, 
In  the  old  historic  mansion 

He  sat  on  his  last  birthday, 

With  his  books  and  his  pleasant  pictures, 

And  his  household  and  his  kin, 
While  a  sound  as  of  myriads  singing 

From  far  and  near  stole  in. 

It  came  from  his  own  fair  city, 
From  the  prairie's  boundless  plain, 

From  the  Golden  Gate  of  sunset, 
And  the  cedarn  woods  of  Maine. 

And  his  heart  grew  warm  within  him, 
And  his  moistening  eyes  grew  dim ; 

For  he  knew  that  his  country's  children 
Were  singing  the  songs  of  him: 

The  lays  of  his  life's  glad  morning, 

The  psalms  of  his  evening  time, 
Whose  echoes  shall  float  forever 

On  the  winds  of  every  clime. 

All  their  beautiful  consolations, 

Sent  forth  like  birds  of  cheer, 
Came  flocking  back  to  his  windows, 

And  sang  in  the  poet's  ear. 

Grateful,  but  solemn  and  tender, 

The  music  rose  and  fell 
With  a  joy  akin  to  sadness 

And  a  greeting  like  farewell* 


POETS'    TRIBUTES.  311 

With  a  sense  of  awe  he  listened 

To  the  voices  sweet  and  young : 
The  last  of  earth  and  the  first  of  heaven 

Seemed  in  the  songs  they  sung. 

And  waiting  a  little  longer 

For  the  wonderful  change  to  come, 
He  heard  the  summoning  angel 

Who  calls  God's  children  home! 

And  to  him,  in  a  holier  welcome, 

Was  the  mystical  meaning  given 
Of  the  words  of  the  blessed  Master: 

"Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven/" 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB,  in  The  Wide  Awake. 


On  the  occasion  of  the  poet's  seventy-fourth  birthday, 
The  Literary  World  published  the  following  poetical  trib 
utes  — 

Not  yet !  "  O  loved  historian  of  hearts  ! " 
"Ultima  Thule"  draweth  not  in  sight; 
For  Love's  own  angel  in  her  raiment  white 
Stands  at  the  prow,  and  as  the  bright  foam  parts 
She  gives  her  mandate:  "  Helmsman,  bear  away 
From  rocky  coast  where  hidden  dangers  throng: 
Rich  freight  we  bear,  the  crowned  king  of  song,  — 
A  king  to  whom  the  nations  homage  pay!" 
Not  yet!  for  great  "Sandalphon"  waiting  stands, 
And  gathers  prayers  and  wishes  one  by  one, 
To  bear  to  that  far  clime  beyond  the  sun, 
All  changed  to  flowers  in  his  immortal  hands. 
Ah,  royal  friend !  Love  would  detain  thee  long 
From  that  far  distant  "Utmost  Isle"  of  song. 

MRS.  J.  OLIVER  SMITH, 


THRONED  in  thine  ebon  chair,  O  Poet!  may 

We  bring  thy  brow  a  wreath?    'Tis  twined  with  more 

Than  the  Ravenna  myrtle  Dante  wore, 

Or  than  Petrarca's  crown  of  Roman  bay, 


312  HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Or  sad  Torquato's,  which  he  could  not  stay 
From  heaven  to  await.     For  if  thy  deathless  store 
Of  song  were  lost  to  us,  with  all  its  lore, 
How  poorer  were  the  whole  world's  heart  to-day! 

Therefore,  among  the  laurel  leaves  we  bind 

Rose,  heather,  shamrock,  olive,  fleur-de-lys, 

And  Alpine  edelweiss,  with  aster  blue, 

And  Mayflower,  and  magnolia ;  and  close-twined 

Among  them,  breathing  grateful  odor,  see 

A  shy  Virginia  violet  wet  with  dew ! 

MARGARET  J.  PRESTON. 

SOME  souls  are  vernal  —  thine  is  young  to-day, 

As  sun-dawn  melting  in  the  eyes  of  May; 
Age  a  mist-woven,  futile  mask  wherethrough 

Shines  thy'  brave  Life,  still  touched  by  morning  dew ! 

No  sin-begotten  wrinkles  mar  the  grace, 

The  fair  frank  lustre  of  thy  spirit's  face: 
Time's  snows  on  thee  have  brought  no  saddening  blight, 

But  crowned  thy  heart  as  head  with  radiant  white ! 

PAUL,  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 

WHEN  thou  didst  hymn  the  "  Voices  of  the  Night," 

While  youth's  fresh  flowers  were  still  thy  path  adorning, 

Their  deep-toned  music  thrilled  the  advancing  light, 
And  they  were  thy  true  Voices  of  the  Morning. 

Thy  latest  lays,  that,  echoing  from  afar, 
Reach  us  as  on  thou  sail'st  toward  Ultima  Thule, 

Thy  Vespers  —  Voices  of  the  Evening  —  are: 

The  sun  sinks  low  —  the  stars  will  shine  forth  duly. 

The  world's  great  heart,  between  thy  morn  and  eve, 
Thy  verse  has  charmed,  as  manifold  as  glorious  ; 

Nor  need'st  thou  dread  the  night,  for  thou  wilt  leave 
A  light  that  through  the  dark  will  stream  victorious. 

But  may  the  twilight  of  thy  day  be  long; 

May  day  so  blessed  have  e'en  as  blessed  an  ending, 
And  soft  reverberations  of  thy  song 

Lull  thee  to  sleep,  with  psalms  celestial  blending ! 

W.  L.  SHOEMAKER. 


POETS'    TRIBUTES.  313 

I. 

To  the  land  of  granite  and  ice, 

In  the  month  of  frost  and  snow, 
A  strain  of  music  from  Paradise 

Came  seeking  a  home  below. 
It  entered  a  child's  white  heart; 

And  the  little  human  tent 
Grew  to  a  shrine  for  its  guest  divine, 

The  poem  the  gods  had  sent. 

II. 

Now  the  rocky  hills  are  crossed 

By  snatches  of  happy  tune : 
The  month  of  darkness  and  frost 

We  honor  above  the  June. 
For  thou,  O  Poet  we  love! 

Art  the  bloom  of  our  northern  clime ; 
And  we  know  that  song,  through  the  ages  long, 

Is  the  sweetest  fruit  of  time. 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES. 


GREAT  souls  there  are  like  mountain  heights, 

Which  through  the  mists  uprear 
Their  stately  heads  in  shining  light, 

And  know  no  stain  nor  peer. 

And  souls  there  are  which  shine  like  stars, 

Far  off  in  evening  skies, 
And  ever  move,  unchanged,  undimmed, 

Before  our  wondering  eyes. 

Like  mount  and  star  to  future  years, 

Wise  singer,  thou  wilt  seem ; 
But  more  to  us  thy  gracious  life 

Is  like  a  noble  stream, 

Whose  course  through  all  the  meadow-lands 

Is  marked  by  trees  and  flowers, 
And  whose  broad  breast,  unvexed  by  storms, 

Reflects  our  sunniest  hours. 

ANNIE  SAWYER  DOWNS. 


S14  HENRY   WADSWOBTH  LONGFELLOW. 

NOT  seldom  genius  bids  us  call  men  great 
Who  are  ignoble  in  their  deeds  or  soul; 
Not  seldom  genius,  with  supreme  control, 
Makes  us  unmindful  of  the  body's  trait 

That  ill  befits  the  royal  dweller's  state. 
But  with  thy  genius  is  the  liberal  dole 
Of  gifts  that  make  it  shine  unmarred  and  whole, 
And  that  the  years  augment  and  not  abate. 

As  though  unconscious  of  the  laurel) ed  name,  — 
Its  heavy  honors  on  thy  temples  bound,  — 
Thou  treadest  life's  familiar,  simple  way; 

And  thy  whole  self  accords  so  with  thy  fame, 

That  with  consummate  fitness,  thou  art  crowned. 
Joy  to  this  sabbath  of  thy  fame  and  day ! 

CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES. 


WHOSE  SHALL  THE  WELCOME  BE? 

THE  wave  goes  down,  the  wind  goes  down, 

The  gray  tide  glitters  on  the  sea, 
The  moon  seems  praying  in  the  sky. 

Gates  of  the  New  Jerusalem 

(A  perfect  pearl  each  gate  of  them') 
Wide  as  all  heaven  swing  on  high: 

Whose  shall  the  welcome  be  ? 

The  wave  went  down,  the  wind  went  down, 

The  tide  of  life  turned  out  to  sea; 
Patience  of  pain,  and  grace  of  deed, 

The  glories  of  the  heart  and  brain, 

Treasure  that  shall  not  come  again ; 
The  human  singing  that  we  need, 

Set  to  a  heaveniy  key. 

The  wave  goes  down,  the  wind  goes  down, 

All  tides  at  last  turn  to  the  sea. 
We  learn  to  take  the  thing  we  have. 

Thou  who  hast  taught  us  strength  in  grief, 

As  moon  to  shadow,  high  and  chief, 
Shine  out,  white  soul,  beyond  the  grave, 

And  light  our  loss  of  thee! 
ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS,  in  N.  Y.  Independent. 


POETS'    TRIBUTES.  315 


LAUS  LAUEEATI. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 
FEB.  27,  1807-1882. 

Mlead  before  the  Maine  Historical  Society  at  their  celebration  of  the  poet'a  seventy, 
fifth  birthday.) 

I  SING  no  common  theme,  but  of  a  man,  — 
One  who,  full-voiced,  the  highway  of  the  King 
Gladdens  with  song;  inspiring  lives  which  span 
A  fruitless  field  where  little  joy  may  spring, 
And  which,  from  birth,  may  win  no  better  thing 
Than  paltry  bread,  and  shelter  from  the  blast, 
Till  unto  Death's  low  house  they  come  at  last. 

It  needs  more  fluent  tongue  than  mine  to  sing, 

In  fitting  measure,  of  a  poet  born  — 

Greater  than  crosiered  priest  or  sceptred  king, 

Since  such  are  made,  and  may  by  chance  be  shorn 

Of  all  their  glory  by  to-morrow  morn; 

But  born  a  poet,  he  shall  surely  be 

Ever  a  poet  to  eternity. 

Of  such  I  strive  to  sing:  one  who  shall  live 

In  Fame's  high  house  while  stars  make  glad  the  sky,  — 

That  happy  house  which  many  hapless  give 

Life's  choicest  pearls  to  gain,  since  none  may  die 

Who  come  within  its  halls  so  fair  and  high. 

Would  I  might  win  it,  with  no  thought  but  this, 

That  I  might  others  bring  soul-health  and  bliss. 

But,  Master,  one  who  is  about  to  die 

Brings  thee  a  crown,  which,  though  not  one  of  bay, 

May  haply  mind  thee  of  some  things  gone  by 

Pleasant  to  think  of,  —  matters  put  away 

In  rooms  forgot,  where  truant  memories  play 

At  hide  and  seek;  for,  beareth  it,  forsooth, 

Savor  of  things  well  loved  by  thee  in  youth. 

Of  Deering's  Woods,  which  whisper  softly,  still, 

A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will,  as  of  yore 

They  lisped  to  thee,  where  sweet-voiced  birds  would  trill, 

In  haunts  wherein  thou  soughtest  tuneful  lore. 

Of  bluff  and  beach  along  our  rugged  shore, 


816  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

Girting  the  bay,  whose  isles  enchanted  drew 
Thy  venturous  thoughts  to  havens  ever  new. 

Dear  Master,  let  me  take  thy  hand  a  spaca, 
And  lead  thee  gently  wheresoe'er  I  may; 
With  the  salt  sea's  cool  breath  upon  thy  face, 
And  in  thine  ears  the  music  of  the  spray, 
Which  rapt  in  days  agone  thy  soul  away, 
Where  hung  full  low  the  golden  fruit  of  truth, 
Within  the  reach  of  thy  aspiring  youth. 

Thou  knowest  well  the  place  :  here  built  George  Cieeves 
Almost  two  centuries  before  thy  birth ; 
Here  was  his  cornfield ;  here  his  lowly  eaves 
Sheltered  the  swallows,  and  around  his  hearth 
The  red  men  crouched,  — poor  souls  of  little  worth: 
Thou  with  clear  vision  seest  them,  I  know, 
As  they  were  in  the  flesh  long  years  ago. 

Surely  the  shrewd,  persistent  pioneer 

Built  better  than  he  knew :  he  thought  to  build 

A  shelter  for  himself,  his  kith  and  gear; 

But  felled  the  trees,  and  grubbed  and  ploughed  and  tilled, 

That  in  the  course  of  time  might  be  fulfilled 

A  wondrous  purpose,  being  no  less  than  this, 

That  here  a  poet  might  be  born  to  bliss. 

Ah!  could  he  but  have  tracked  adown  the  dim 
Long,  weary  path  of  years,  and  stood  to-day 
With  thee  and  me,  how  would  the  eyes  of  him 
Have  flashed  with  pride  and  joy  to  hear  men  say, 
Here  Cieeves  built  the  first  house  in  Casco  Bay; 
Here,  too,  was  our  Longfellow's  place  of  birth, 
And  sooth,  God  sent  his  singers  upon  earth. 

Thou  canst  not  find  Clay  Cove  ?    'Twas  here,  wilt  say, 

When  thou  didst  listen  to  the  runnet's  song, 

Leaping  to  meet  the  full  lips  of  the  bay. 

Well,  let  us  climb  Munjoy;  lo!  good  and  strong, 

In  the  same  coat  of  red  it  hath  so  long 

Disported  bravely,  spite  of  flood  and  flame, 

The  old  Observatory,  still  the  same. 


POETS'    TRIBUTES.  317 

And  there  the  forts;  and,  farther  seaward  yet, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by  day, 
The  lighthouse  standeth  still,  as  firmly  set 
Upon  its  flinty  throne  amidst  the  spray, 
As  erst  when  thou  didst  dream  thy  soul  away 
To  the  hoarse  Hebrides,  or  bright  Azore, 
Or  flashing  surges  of  San  Salvador. 

And,  ere  we  leave,  look,  where  still  sleep  the  two 
Brave  captains,  who  in  bloody  shrouds  were  brought 
From  the  great  sea-fight  whilst  the  bugles  blew, 
And  drums  rolled,  and  gaunt  cannon  terror  wrought 
In  childish  hearts:  the  place  thou  oft  hast  sought 
To  dream  the  fight  o'er,  while  the  busy  hum 
Of  toil  from  wharf  and  street  would  strangely  come. 

But  now  along  the  teeming  thoroughfare 

Thread  we  our  way.     Strange  faces,  sayest  thou  ? 

Yet  names  well  known  to  thee,  some  haply  bear, 

And,  shouldst  thou  scan  more  closely  face  and  brow, 

Old  looks  would  come  well  known  to  thee  enow, 

Which  shone  on  faces  of  the  girls  and  boys 

Who  shared  with  thee  the  sweets  of  youthful  joys. 

And  now  we  come  where,  rough  with  rent  and  scar, 
The  ancient  ropewalk  stood,  low-roofed  and  gray, 
Embalmed  with  scent  of  oakum,  flax,  and  tar, 
Cobwebbed  and  dim,  and  crammed  with  strange  array 
Of  things  which  lure  the  thoughts  of  youth  away 
To  wondrous  climes,  where  never  ship  hath  been, 
Nor  foot  hath  trod,  nor  curious  eye  hath  seen. 

Gone !  —  why,  I  dreamt !    A  moment  since  'twas  there, 
Or  seemed  to  be.    Their  lives'  frail  thread,  'tis  true, 
The  spinners  long  since  spun;  the  maidens  fair, 
Swinging  and  laughing  as  their  shadows  flew 
Along  the  grass,  have  swung  from  earthly  view, 
And  the  gay  mountebanks  have  vaulted  quite 
Into  oblivion's  eternal  night. 

And  they  are  gone.    The  woman  at  the  well ; 
The  old  man  ringing  in  the  noontide  heat ; 
The  shameless  convicts  with  their  faces  fell; 
The  boy  and  kite,  and  steeds  with  flying  feet, 
And  sportsmen  ambushed  midst  of  leafage  sweet; 


318  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Ay,  and  the  ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze 
Are  rotting  on  the  shores  of  unknown  seas. 

But,  Master,  let  us  fare  to  old  Bramhall, 

Up  Free  and  Main  Streets  —  this  is  State,  full  well 

The  house  where  Mellen  lived  you  must  recall, 

Seeing  a  poet  once  therein  might  dwell ; 

Though  short  of  Fame's  fair  house  he  hapless  fell, 

Tracing  his  name,  half  listless,  in  the  reach 

Of  every  tide  which  sweeps  Time's  treacherous  beach. 

And  here  is  cool  Bramhall ;  and  there  still  stands 
The  Deering  house,  as  thou  hast  known  it  long; 
Where  Brackett's  house  stood,  ere  with  murderous  hands 
The  Indians  thronged  around  it  —  witched  of  wrong  — 
One  August  day,  with  torch  and  savage  song, 
And  swept  it  from  the  earth.    Ah !  void  of  hope, 
Might  feeble  Falmouth  then  midst  ruin  grope. 

But  time  hath  made  all  right  now.     Lo!  a-west, 
Whither  the  red  man  gazed  with  fervid  eyes, 
The  mountains  in  eternal  whiteness  drest, 
He  called  the  crystal  hills,  and,  childishwise, 
Did  fondly  deem,  that  way  lay  Paradise; 
Whither  each  evening  went  the  chief  of  day, 
Bedecked  with  painted  robes  and  feathers  gay. 

'Twas  not  so  far  amiss,  for  type  more  grand 
Of  the  celestial  hills  no  eye  may  see; 
Towering  in  splendid  majesty,  they  stand 
Like  the  fixed  portals  of  eternity, 
Curtained  with  shining  clouds  tumultuously, 
Which  rise  and  fall,  yet  ever  seem  to  hold 
A  mystery  bosomed  in  each  shadowy  fold. 

Pile  upon  pile  they  rise ;  and  meet  the  sky, 

Blue,  overarching,  like  a  mighty  dome. 

Even  such  a  temple  doth  my  spirit's  eye 

Limn  for  those  souls  who  through  achievement  come 

To  well-won  fame.    Lo !  in  this  glorious  home 

I  see  them  sit  august,  and,  crowned  with  bays, 

Across  the  silent  centuries  calmly  gaze. 


POETS'    TRIBUTES.  319 

Homer  unkempt,  with  close,  sagacious  look; 
Plato,  in  whose  calm  face  pale  mysteries  bide ; 
Virgil,  smooth-cheeked,  with  oaten  pipe  and  crook; 
Grave  Sophocles,  with  eyes  unsatisfied, 
Where  riddles  all  unread  in  ambush  hide ; 
Keen-eyed  Euripides,  whose  books  were  men, 
And  jovial  Horace  with  satiric  pen ; 

And  dear  old  Chaucer,  loved  of  gods  and  men, 
Benign,  keen-witted,  childlike,  quaint,  and  wise ; 
Spenser,  pure  knight,  whose  lance  was  his  good  pen, 
The  praise  of  ladyes  fayre  his  loved  emprise; 
Great  Shakspeare,  with  a  seer's  unhindered  eyes; 
Blind  Milton,  listening  for  a  seraph's  wings; 
And  Burns,  in  whose  blithe  face  a  skylark  sings ; 

Wordsworth,  so  simple ;  and  poor,  fragile  Keats, 

Who  poured  his  heart  out  like  a  nightingale, 

Whose  affluent  verse  half  cloys  with  wealth  of  sweets; 

A  master,  spite  of  faulty  work  and  frail, 

Whose  luckless  loss  the  world  full  long  shall  wail : 

And  here,  placed  fairly  in  this  hall  of  Fame, 

A  glorious  seat  with  newly-carven  name. 

'Tis  plain,  dear  Master,  'tis  thy  name  forsooth 

Deep  graven  in  the  everlasting  stone. 

There  shall  it  be  untouched  of  Time's  sharp  tooth, 

While  sunshine  kisses  bud  to  bloom,  and  zone 

Answers  to  zone  with  fruitage  all  its  own; 

And  quiring  stars  with  universal  song 

The  boundless  arch  of  heaven  majestic  throng. 

Here  will  I  bid  thee,  Master,  fond  good-by, 

Wishing  thee  soul-health  and  full  many  a  day 

Of  blissful  living,  ere  thou  mayest  try 

The  scope  of  other  joys.     And  now  I  may 

This  wreath  from  Deering's  Woods,  O  Master!  lay 

Upon  thy  brow.     God  speed  thee  while  the  sun 

Shines  on  the  faithful  work  which  thou  hast  done ! 

JAMES  P.  BAXTER,  in  the  Portland  Advertiser. 


320  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


HENRY  WADSWOBTH  LONGFELLOW. 

SEVENTY-FIVE  bright  golden  years, 
Journeying  toward  an  all-wise  Giver; 

Seventy-five !  —  yet  scarce  he  hears 
The  rippling  sob  of  Time's  great  river! 

Still  is  the  Minstrel's  music  heard, 

Strong  and  clear  are  his  notes  of  warning; 

Still  are  his  lute-strings  sweetly  stirred, 
Warm  is  his  heart  as  in  life's  morning. 

Turn,  O  Muse !  to  that  wondrous  page, 
Glowing  for  aye  with  song  and  story; 

Brush  with  thy  wing  the  mists  of  Age, 
Sing  of  the  Minstrel's  youthful  glory. 

His  was  a  triumph  brave  and  grand, 
Worthy  the  laurel's  fond  caressing; 

His  the  touch  of  a  master-hand, 
Ever  the  notes  of  Hate  suppressing. 

Turn,  O  Potter!  thy  magic  wheels, — 

Ixion-like,  turn  on  forever; 
While  at  thy  shrine  Keramos  kneels, 

Nought  from  his  song  thy  name  can  sever. 

Here  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood's  hours, 
And  here  old  ocean's  blue  is  gleaming; 

Yonder  the  oaks'  primeval  bowers, 
Where  infant  Fancy  fell  a-dreaming. 

Low  the  sun  on  the  western  wave, 
Slowly  the  night  apace  is  creeping; 

Strong  is  the  Minstrel's  heart  and  brave, 
Ever  is  Faith  her  vigils  keeping. 

Fancy  leans  from  her  casement-bar, 
Lists  to  the  song  that's  upward  pealing; 

Into  the  Isle  of  Dreams  afar, 
Lo!  a  shadowy  bark  is  stealing  I 


POETS'    TRIBUTES.  321 

Only  the  gleam  of  silver  sails, 

Under  the  even's  purple  glowing; 
Only  a  glimpse  of  distant  vales, 

Where  the  fountains  of  Youth  are  flowing. 

Yet  still  for  thee,  O  Minstrel!  beam 

Twinkling  lights  from  Memory's  portal; 
Dancing  away  on  life's  dark  stream. 

Into  the  realms  of  blest  Immortal ! 

ROBERT  REXDALE,  in  The  Portland  Transcript. 

FEB.  27, 1882. 

TO  H.   W.   L. 

ON  HIS   SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY. 
(Suggested  by  the  poem,  My  Lost  Youth.) 

THEY  err  who  say  the  poet  dies, 

Or  suffers  foul  eclipse: 
Old  age  is  never  in  his  eyes, 

Nor  palsy  on  his  lips. 

Nature  and  love  and  truth  and  faith 

Know  no  black,  biting  frost. 
The  poet  feels  no  bated  breath, 

His  youth  is  never  lost. 
ISRAEL  WASIIBURN,  JUN.,  in  The  Portland  Transcript. 

THE  NESTOR-POET. 

His  day  is  spent,  and  he  is  dead: 
The  Nestor-poet's  silvered  head 
Is  lying  low,  as,  sad  and  slow, 
They  bear  him  to  his  hollow  bed. 

His  lips  a  voiceless  silence  keep; 
He  sleeps,  alas!  a  mortal  sleep; 
His  rayless  eye  cannot  reply 
To  other  eyes  that  vainly  weep. 

No  more,  through  sinuous  tones,  his  song, 
In  fresh-drawn  notes,  shall  move  along; 
No  magic  theme  through  him  shall  dream 
In  rhythmic  music  to  the  throng. 
3—21 


322  HENEY    WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

We  call  it  Death :  it  cannot  be ! 
From  land  to  land,  from  sea  to  sea, 
A  winged  fame  has  borne  his  name: 
No  Death  can  still  his  minstrelsy. 

O  poet  of  the  golden  lyre ! 
O  glory  of  our  western  choir! 
Thy  living  page,  from  age  to  age 
Shall  light  with  an  immortal  fire. 

S.  H.  TIIAYER  in  Christian  at  Work. 


LONGFELLOW. 

'TWAS  but  a  few  brief  days  ago,  so  proud 

We  were  of  thy  long  life  and  what  it  bore: 
And  now,  for  all  that  wealth  of  praise,  the  shroud, 

And  hearts  all  hushed,  since  they  thy  loss  deplore; 
For  swift  as  glowing  sunset  dies  in  gloom, 
Thy  flashing  brightness  darkens  in  the  tomb, 
And  we  that  gazed  with  rapture  and  delight 
Now  stand  bereft  of  that  inspiring  sight ! 
Yet  no !  thy  years  were  long,  thy  song  was  sweet, 

And  welcome  won  from  all  who  heard  its  strain; 
As  birds  our  own  New-England  woodlands  greet, 

So  came  to  us  thy  pleasant,  glad  refrain. 
And,  while  the  seasons  come  with  flowers  and  song, 
Our  Minstrel  shall  their  happiness  prolong. 

WILLIAM  BKUOTON  in  The  Christian  Eegister. 


A  LAUREL-LEAF. 

How  sweet  he  sung!    The  laborer  heard 
His  carol,  like  a  cheering  bird, 
Till  labor  grew  a  noble  thing, 
With  music  in  the  anvil's  ring. 

How  sweet  he  sung  'midst  dying  men, 
The  song  that  souls  will  meet  again; 
Till  mourners  rolled  doubt's  stone  away, 
And  through  the  tomb  saw  breaking  day! 


POETS'    TRIBUTES.  323 

Eternal  life  is  in  his  song, 
Forever  lifting  souls  from  wrong: 
If  thus  the  earthly,  what  must  be 
His  song  of  immortality  ? 

FLETCHER  BATES,  in  The  Cambridge  Tribune. 


LONGFELLOW. 

HE  who  would  wield  the  glorious  power  of  song, 
Who  in  the  immortal  choir  would  take  his  stand, 
Must  win  his  birthright  in  that  sacred  band 

By  suffering  and  by  strivings  stern  and  long ; 

And  at  the  best  oft  bear  this  cruel  wrong,  — 
To  feel  the  lyre  torn  from  his  stricken  hand 
Ere  its  sweet  chords  have  waked  the  unheeding  land 

To  fame's  responsive  anthem  full  and  strong. 

Not  so  with  thee,  great  master  whom  we  love, 
Harsh  Fate  herself  has  helpless  passed  thee  by; 
No  room  was  there  for  envy,  malice,  hate, 

So  laurels  thicken  still  thy  brows  above, 
And  still  the  world  beholds,  with  well-pleased  eye, 
Thy  peace-crowned  life  whereon  all  blessings  wait. 

CHARLES  TURNER  DAZEY,  in  The  Harvard  Register. 


LONGFELLOW. 

IN   MEMORIAM. 

ALAS,  our  harp  of  harps !  the  instrument, 
On  whose  fine  strings  the  nymph  Parnassus-bred 
Played  ever  most  melodiously,  is  rent, 
And  all  its  music  fled. 

Alas,  our  torch  of  truth !  the  lofty  light, 
That  yet  a  tender  household  radiance  cast, 
And  made  the  cottage  as  the  palace  bright, 
Is  blotted  out  at  last. 

Alas!  the  sweet  pure  life,  that  ripened  still 
To  holier  thought  and  more  benignant  grace, 
Hath  spread  its  wings,  and  who  is  left  to  fill 
The  dear  and  empty  place  ? 


324  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

How  poor  thou  art,  O  bleak  Atlantic  coast ! 
How  barren  all  thy  hills,  my  mother-land ! 
Where  now  amid  the  nations  is  thy  boast, 
And  where  thy  Delphic  band  ? 

Of  that  bright  group  who  sang  among  thy  wheat, 
And  cheered  thy  reapers  lest  their  brown  arms  tire, 
Whom  ermined  Europe  raised  a  hand  to  greet, 
As  princes  of  the  lyre, 

The  first  have  fallen,  and  the  others  wait, 
The  snow  of  years  on  each  beloved  head, 
With  weary  feet  before  the  sunset  gate 
That  opens  toward  the  Dead. 

And  who  abides  to  sing  away  our  pain, 
As  these  our  bards  we  carry  to  their  rest  ? 
We  need  thy  comfort  for  the  tears  that  rain, 
O  poet !  on  thy  breast. 

It  is  our  earth,  where  prophet  steps  grow  few, 
For  which  we  weep,  and  not,  O  harper  gray ! 
For  thee,  who  carolled  from  the  morning  dew 
To  noontide  of  the  day, 

Nor  left  thy  task  when  twilight  down  the  wall 
Stole  silently  in  shadowy  flakes  and  bars, 
And  whose  clear  tones,  while  night  enfolded  all, 
Sang  on  beneath  the  stars. 

The  knights  and  dames  had  bent  their  heads  to  list, 
The  serving-maids  were  hearkening  from  the  stair, 
And  little  childish  faces,  mother-kissed, 
Had  nocked  about  thy  chair, 

When  ceased  thy  fingers  in  the  strings  to  weave, 
O'er  thine  anointed  sight  the  eyelids  fell; 
And  thou  wert  sleeping,  who  from  dawn  to  eve 
Hadst  wrought  so  wondrous  well. 

O  gentle  minstrel,  may  thy  rest  be  deep 
And  tranquil,  as  thy  working-day  was  long! 
Our  lonely  hearts  will  grudge  thee  not  thy  sleep, 
Who  grudged  us  not  thy  song. 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES,  in  The  Literary  World. 
WELLESLEY,  MASS. 


POETS'    TRIBUTES.  326 


"ULTIMA  THULE." 

H.    W.    L. 

WRAP  the  broad  canvas  close ;  furl  the  last  sail ; 

Let  go  the  anchor ;  for  the  utmost  shore 

Is  reached  at  length,  from  which,  ah !  nevermore, 
Shall  the  brave  bark  ride  forth  to  meet  the  gale, 
Or  skim  the  calm  with  phosphorescent  trail, 

Or  guide  lost  mariners  amid  the  roar 

Of  hurricanes,  or  send,  far  echoing  o'er 
Some  shipwrecked  craft,  the  music  of  his  "Hail." 

And  he  has  laid  aside  his  travel  gear; 

And  forth  to  meet  him  come  the  mystic  band 
Whom  he  has  dreamed  of,  worshipped,  loved  so  long,  — 
The  veiled  Immortals,  who,  with  lofty  cheer 

Of  exultation,  take  him  by  the  hand, 
And  lead  him  to  the  inner  shrine  of  Song  ! 

MARGARET  J.  PRESTON,  in  The  Literary  World. 
LEXINGTON,  VA. 

DEATH  OF  THE  POET  LONGFELLOW. 

DEPARTED!  and  no  "prophet's  son"  to  say, 
As  all  unseen  along  its  star-path  came 
The  God-sent  chariot  with  its  steeds  of  flame,  - 
"  Behold,  thy  Master  shall  be  called  to-day!" 
If  some  far  gleam  of  radiance  we  had  caught, 
How  mute  a  throng  those  parted  waves  had  sought! 

Less  than  six  moons  have  waned  since  one  sad  morn, 
Our  royal  bard  so  felt  a  nation's  pain, 
That,  born  of  tears,  fell  his  melodious  strain 
On  weary  hearts  by  tooth  of  anguish  torn. 
Then  Death,  that  marksman  all  too  sure  of  aim, 
Had  ruthless  borne  away  our  nation's  head. 
Again  our  heart  he  rends  :  but  "deathless  fame" 
Above  his  range  shall  proudly  be  upborne. 

And  still  Columbia  mourns  —  by  Sorrow  led, 
She  stands  like  Niobe  beside  her  dead! 

Mrs.  J.  OLIVER  SMITH,  in  The  Literary  World. 
JOHNSTOWN,  N.Y. 


326  HENRY  WADSWOttTH  LONGFELLOW. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

(Born  Feb.  27,  1807.    Died  March  24, 1882.) 

A  LIFE  PSALM,  staidly  sweet  and  simply  strong 
As  any  the  dead  Singer  gave  tlie  throng, 
Sinks  to  its  close.     But  Fame  will  yet  prolong, 

In  echoes  clear,  across  two  worlds  wide  winging, 
And  in  all  English  hearts  like  home  bells  ringing, 
Glad  memory  of  the  Singer  and  his  singing. 

From  London  "  Punch.' 


LONGFELLOW. 

POET  whose  sunny  span  of  fruitful  years 
Outreaches  earth,  whose  voice  within  our  ears 
Grows  silent,  shall  we  mourn  for  thee  ?    Our  sigh 
Is  April's  breath,  our  grief  is  April's  tears. 

If  this  be  dying,  fair  it  is  to  die: 
Even  as  a  garment  weariness  lays  by, 
Thou  layest  down  life  to  pass,  as  Time  hath  passed 
From  wintry  rigors  to  a  springtime  sky. 

Are  there  tears  left  to  give  thee  at  the  last, 
Poet  of  spirits  crushed  and  hearts  downcast, 
Loved  of  worn  women  who  when  work  is  done 
Weep  o'er  thy  page  in  twilights  fading  fast  ? 

Oh,  tender-toned  and  tender-hearted  one! 
We  yield  thee  to  the  season  new  begun, 
Lay  thy  white  head  within  the  arms  of  Spring, 
Thy  song  had  all  her  shower  and  her  sun. 

Nay,  let  us  not  such  sorrowful  tribute  bring 
Now  that  thy  lark-like  soul  hath  taken  wing: 
A  grateful  memory  fills  and  more  endears 

The  silence  when  a  bird  hath  ceased  to  sing. 

H.  C.  BUNNER,  in  Puck. 


POETS'    TRIBUTES.  327 


THE  DEAD  POET. 

SINGER  serene !  in  whose  calm  compass  lay 
The  mellowed  richness  of  deep  sunset  glows, 

The  unclouded  freshness  of  clear,  opening  day, 
The  stately  sombre  shade  of  night's  repose, 

Long  hast  thou  stood,  and  in  unbroken  strain 
Poured  forth  the  plenitude  of  thy  pure  art: 

Now  that  thy  voice  hath  ceased  we  pause  in  vain, 
Loath  from  the  sacred  stillness  to  depart. 

Mute  are  those  lips  which  once  with  music  flowed ; 

Mute  to  all  life,  to  beauty  and  to  fame: 
Yet  may  we  marvel  if  some  rare  abode 

Of  death  hath  grown  melodious  through  thy  name. 

Or  do  we  only  in  time's  chalice  hold, 
Imperishable  still,  the  fragrance  of  thy  years  ? 

God  knows  alone,  whose  hands  alike  unfold 
Life,  giving  song,  and  death,  dispensing  tears. 

EMILY  B.  ELLIS,  in  The  Christian  Union. 


H.   W.   LONGFELLOW. 

SWEETLY  as  sinks  the  sun 

In  golden  west, 
So  sank  our  honored  one 

Calmly  to  rest. 

Home  of  the  poet-soul 

Tenantless  now: 
Still  we,  in  reverence, 

O'er  thy  dust  bow. 

Like  sweetest  melody 

His  songs  linger  yet. 
Words  so  familiar  grown 

Who  can  forget  ? 

Poet  no  more  than  friend, 
Teacher  of  life  sublime, 
Thy  name  be  honored  still 
Through  coming  time. 
ELIZA  M.  HICKOK,  in  The  Christian  Register. 


328  HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


H.  W.  LONGFELLOW:  IN  MEMORIAM. 

Nee  turpcm  senectam 
Degere,  nee  cithara  carentem. 

"NOT  to  be  tuneless  in  old  age!" 
Ah!  surely  blest  his  pilgrimage, 

Who,  in  his  winter's  snow, 
Still  sings  with  note  as  sweet  and  clear 
As  in  the  morning  of  the  year 

When  the  first  violets  blow ! 

Blest!  —  but  more  blest,  whom  summer's  heat, 
Whom  spring's  impulsive  stir  and  beat, 

Have  taught  no  feverish  lure; 
Whose  muse,  benignant  and  serene, 
Still  keeps  his  autumn  chaplet  green 

Because  his  verse  is  pure  I 

Lie  calm,  O  white  and  laureate  head! 
Lie  calm,  O  Dead,  that  art  not  dead, 

Since  from  the  voiceless  grave 
Thy  voice  shall  speak  to  old  and  young 
While  song  yet  speaks  an  English  tongue 

By  Charles'  or  Thamis'  wave! 

AUSTIN  DOBSON,  in  The  London  Athenaeum. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

SWEET  Poesy,  most  shy  and  gentle  maid, 

Hiding  alone,  far  off,  by  English  rills, 

How  did^t  thou  flee  our  wind-swept,  sunny  hills, 
Till  he,  pursuing  long  in  bosky  glade, 
His  gentle  spell  on  thy  sweet  wildness  laid ! 

Now,  by  our  rivers,  how  thy  wood-note  thrills, 

How  the  far  echo  each  deep  valley  fills, 
Since  thy  dear  feet  came  hither  unafraid! 

Mourn  for  him  now,  —  our  eldest  son  of  song,  — 
Eldest  but  one,  —  and  dearest  in  thy  sight, 

That  made  the  New  World  echo  of  thee  long,  — 
Mourn  with  those  thousand  voices  of  the  night 

That  rose  and  fell  along  that  rocky  shore 

Whose  solemn  music  he  shall  hear  no  more. 

JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE,  in  The  Critic. 


POETS'    TRIBUTES.  329 


LONGFELLOW. 

GONE  to  his  rest,  —  such  rest  as  they  must  find 
Who  leave  but  sweetness  with  their  fellow-kind. 

How  flowed  his  life  one  silver  song  of  praise, 
How  beautiful  his  crown  of  many  days ! 

Age  seemed  not  age,  so  fresh  the  spirit  grew, 
Such  broadened  love  to  God  and  man  he  knew. 

His  sympathies  went  out  to  lonely  lives, 

And  breathed  that  hope  which  every  grief  survives. 

At  last  hath  come  his  goodly  recompense, 
Above  the  cold,  dim  world  of  mortal  sense. 

"  The  faces  of  the  children  "  shall  be  there, 
And  all  pure  things  that  claimed  his  tender  care. 

Gone  to  his  rest :  oh,  be  our  own  as  sweet, 
When  fail  like  his  our  weary  pilgrim  feet  I 

GEORGE  H.  COOMEK,  in  The  Youth's  Companion. 


LONGFELLOW. 

(On  his  seventy-fifth  birthday,  Feb.  27, 1882.) 

I  COME  as  one  who  feels  how  near  thou  art, 
And  yet  how  far  —  how  near  in  thy  sweet  song, 
That  wafts  us  like  the  breath  of  heaven  along, 

And  breathes  its  blessing  into  every  heart: 

And  yet  how  far  —  as  if  from  all  apart 
Thou  wert  uplifted  from  the  minstrel  throng, 
To  bear  the  sceptre  as  becomes  the  strong 

Who  learn  by  suffering  how  to  heal  its  smart. 

Oh,  may  the  years  touch  lightly  as  they  fall, 
And  leave  thee  long  to  sing  as  thou  hast  sung, 

The  friend,  companion,  and  delight  of  all 
Who  love  the  pure  and  good  in  every  tongue  — 

The  grand  ideal  of  the  world's  best  thought, 

Teaching  by  truth  as  thou  by  truth  art  taught. 


330  HENRY  WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

(March  24,  1882.) 

Bu.  late  the  land  was  ringing  with  his  fame, 
And  city  vied  with  city  to  express 
The  nation's  and  the  world's  indebtedness 

To  the  enduring  works  that  bear  his  name ; 

And  the  whole  people  with  their  tributes  came 
As  round  the  Patriarch  of  Song  to  press, 
Leading  the  children  in  their  loveliness 

To  crown  him  master,  with  the  world's  acclaim. 

But  now  the  universal  voice  of  praise 

Is  saddened  by  the  muffled  cry  of  pain 
That  bursts  from  every  heart  in  blind  amaze, 

And  bows  the  nation  in  deep  grief  again; 
But  in  the  love  that  triumphs  o'er  the  grave 
He  lives  immortal  with  the  good  and  brave. 

HENXY  H.  CLAUK,  in  The  Boston  Transcript. 


LONGFELLOW. 


POET  of  simple  folk,  thou  art  so  wise, 
And  from  such  wisdom-deeps  hast  drawn  thy  song, 
Thy  page  is  magical  to  children's  eyes, 
And  still  to  thee  the  old  and  learned  throng. 
Not  thine  tempestuous  verse  of  writhing  thought 
That  tosses  frothing  words  against  bleak  skies, 
Or  from  black  bottoms  in  a  whirlpool  caught, 
Stirs  up  a  gleaming  slime  of  passion-dyes. 
These  are  hot  shallows :  where  the  sea  is  deep, 
The  mightiest  storm  leaves  the  cool  waters  clean. 
So  doth  thy  verse  blow  fervently,  but  sweep 
No  foulness  up  from  the  heart-deeps  serene. 
Where  in  sweet  visions  child  and  man  unite, 
Appear  the  heights  and  depths  of  human  sight. 

II. 

Reading  a  while,  I  said  — This  poet's  verse, 
vVhereunto  shall  I  likeu  it  ?    A  brook 
That  in  the  valley  doth  tha  songs  rehearse 
Of  mountain-tops,  that  is  this  poet's  book; 


PORTS'    TRIBUTES.  831 

And  children  wade  in  it  from  side  to  side, 
And  toss  its  sparkling  drops  from  face  to  face. 
Reading  again,  I  said,  'Tis  a  river  wide, 
A  stately  stream  that  flows  by  towns  apace, 
And  gathers  in  its  breast  toil-songs  of  men. 
Reading  once  more,  I  cried,  I  sail  a  sea, 
A  deep  where  storms  and  calms  of  joy  and  pain 
Mingle  in  harmony  with  heaven  and  me. 
I  ceased :  yet  not  opprest  with  thoughts  in  strife 
How  this  could  be.     I  had  been  reading  LIFE. 

J.  VILA  BLAKE,  in  The  Literary  World. 

IN  MEMORIAM. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

IT  flashed  through  the  sea,  —  that  message ; 

And  the  heart  of  England  again 
To  the  brief,  sad  words  responded 

With  the  thrill  of  a  sudden  pain. 

For  next  to  his  own  great  country 

She  cherished  the  poet's  name, 
Rejoiced  in  his  song,  and  crowned  him 

With  the  laurel-wreath  of  fame. 

And  wherever  her  tongue  is  spoken, 

Wherever  her  children  tread, 
Will  be  heard  with  a  throb  of  sorrow 

That  Longfellow  is  dead. 

For  in  spirit  he  dwelt  amongst  us; 

His  name  is  a  "household  word:" 
Where  liveth  the  Anglo-Saxon 

Whose  feeling  he  hath  not  stirred? 

And  in  spirit  we  stand  beside  you, 

O  brothers  beyond  the  wave! 
As  with  sorrowful  hearts  ye  bear  him, 

Love-crowned,  to  his  honored  grave. 

Lay  him  to  rest  in  "  God's  Acre; " 

But  in  earth's  remotest  lands 
Will  be  seen  through  the  coming  ages 

His  "  footprints  on  the  sands." 

MKS.  E.  B.  PRIDEAUX. 
MODBURY,  ENGLAND,  March  27, 1882. 


332  HENRY   WADSWORTII  LONGFELLOW. 

SONNET  TO  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

A  REMINISCENCE. 

A  LITTLE  onward  tend  thy  feet,  sweet  friend : 
How  brief  the  space  since,  side  by  side,  were  we, 
Weird  children,  in  that  "  city  by  the  sea,"  — 

Each  golden-haired,  —  whose  mystic  visions  tend 

To  nobler  heights  than  youthful  fancy  kenned ! 
Then  Cushman's1  classic  mind  enthused  thee, 
And  Martin's2  stately  grace  coerced  me. 

Thy  retrospective  eye  a  moment  bend : 
I  was  thy  Dian  then,  Endymion  thou,  — 

A  timid  boy,  a  thoughtful  girl,  —  nor  knew 

The  bond  that  linked,  and  yet  estranged,  us  two. 
I  see  the  glory  of  thy  youth  but  now, 

As,  rolling  back,  the  golden  gateway  threw 
Its  flash  of  light  athwart  thy  entering  brow. 

ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH,  in  Baldwin's  Monthly. 
BLUE  POINT,  L.  I.,  April  2. 


LONGFELLOW  DEAD  ! 

i. 

AYE,  it  is  well !  .  .  .  Crush  back  your  selfish  tears ; 
For  from  the  half-veiled  face  of  earthly  Spring 
Hath  he  not  risen  on  heaven-aspiring  wing 
To  reach  the  spring-tide  of  the  eternal  years  ? 

1  Bezaleel  Cushman,  who  kept  the  Portland  Academy  when  I  was  a  child,  was 
a  most  accomplished  educator  for  perhaps  half  a  century.    He  was  an  enthusiast  for 
literature  and  scholarship,  and  formed  the  minds  of  William  Pitt  Fessenden,  Seba 
Smith,  Henry  \V.  Longfellow,  and  others  who  made  their  mark  in  the  world. 

2  The  Martins  were  three  English  sisters,  who,  for  the  same  length  of  time,  edu 
cated  the  girls  of  Maine.    They  were  conscientious,  thorough  teachers,  and  accom 
plished  women.    They  used  to  boast  that  "  all  their  pupils  turned  out  well." 

The  young  gentlemen  of  the  Academy  were  assiduous  in  their  respectful  atten 
tions  to  Miss  Penelope  Martin's  scholars,  which  amounted  to  little  more  than  lifting 
the  hat  as  they  passed.  There  was  an  old  post  at  the  corner  of  Middle  and  King 
Streets  into  which  time  had  deftly  wrought  a  pigeon-hole,  which  served  us  as  a 
post-office ;  and  into  this  aperture  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  Academy  deposited 
harmless  missives  addressed  to  heathen  deities  of  the  feminine  order.  Once  upon 
a  time  the  boys  of  the  public  school  detected  the  treasures  thus  hidden,  and  with 
irreverent  curiosity  sought  to  identify  the  designated  deities  by  peering  impudently 
under  the  school-bonnets  that  shielded  our  divinities;  but  the  girls  of  that  day  were 
somewhat  dignified,  and,  being  above  all  giggle,  the  annoyance  did  not  last  long. 


POETS1    TRIBUTES.  333 

With  life  full-orbed,  Tie  stands  amid  his  peers, 
The  grand  Immortals!  ...  a  fair,  mild-eyed  king, 
Flushing  to  hear  their  potent  welcomes  ring 
Round  the  far  circle  of  those  luminous  spheres. 

Mock  not  his  heavenly  cheer  with  mortal  wail. 

Unless  some  human-hearted  nightingale, 

Pierced  by  Griefs  thorn,  shall  give  such  music  birth 

That  he,  the  new-winged  soul,  the  crowned  and  shriven, 

May  lean  beyond  the  effulgent  verge  of  heaven, 

To  catch  his  own  sweet  requiem,  borne  from  earth ! 

II. 

Such  marvellous  requiem  were  a  psean  too  — 
(Woe,  touched  and  quivering  with  triumphant  fire);  — 
For  him  whose  course  flashed  always  high  and  higher, 
Hath  passed  beyond  the  strange,  mysterious  blue : 
Ah !  yet,  we  murmur,  can  this  loss  be  true  ? 
Forever  silent  here,  that  tender  lyre, 
Tuned  to  all  gracious  themes,  all  pure  desire, 
Whose  notes  dropped  sweet  as  honey,  soft  as  dew  ? 

No  tears !  you  say  —  since  rounded,  brave,  complete, 

The  poet's  work  lies  radiant  at  God's  feet. 

Nay!  nay! .  .  .  our  hearts  with  grief  must  hold  their  tryst: 

How  dim  grows  all  about  us  and  above ! 

Vainly  we  grope  through  death's  bewildering  mist, 

To  feel  once  more  his  clasp  of  human  love ! 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE,  in  Baldwin's  Monthly. 
COPSE  HILL,"  GEORGIA,  March  27,  1882. 


YALE  ET  SALYE. 

WHAT  greeting  reached  our  poet  from  the  skies, 
Just  when  the  farewells,  lowly  uttered  here, 
Past  echo  died  in  spaces  fair  and  clear  ? 

What  rumors  on  his  starward  progress  rise  ? 

What  glad  salutes  the  entering  guest  surprise  ? 
And  who  —  what  sweet-lipped  bard,  or  ancient  seer — 
Is  first  to  render  him  large  heaven-cheer, 

And  break  the  light  to  unaccustomed  eyes  ? 


334  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

Farewell,  —  and  hail !    Oh,  doubt  not  he  renews 
The  interrupted  measure  of  his  song, 

The  gyves  of  age  undone  that  weighed  him  long: 
Shall  poets  folded  in  Elysium  lose 

Their  native  fire,  the  theme  each  here  pursues  ? 
'Tis  there  the  same,  but  soars  more  rapt  and  stroijf 
EDITH  M.  THOMAS,  inTi^' 


EAELT  POEMS. 

HITHERTO  UNPUBLISHED  IN  AMERICAN  BOOKS. 


THE  twelve  poems  which  appear  below  are  reprinted 
directly  from  the  United  States  Literary  Gazette, 
where  they  appeared  during  the  years  1824-26.  They 
were  written  by  Longfellow  when  he  was  between  the 
ages  of  eighteen  and  twenty,  and  were  not  thought  by 
him  to  be  worthy  of  a  place  among  his  later  poems. 
Five  others,  however,  which  appeared  in  the  same  peri 
odical,  he  has  included  in  his  complete  works.  Yet 
many  which  he  saw  fit  to  reject  are  characterized  by  so 
quiet  and  pensive  a  beauty,  that  they  will  be  eagerly 
perused  by  all  admirers  of  his  poetry. 

In  1831  George  B.  Cheever,  in  his  American  Common 
place  Book  of  Poetry,  said  of  these  earlier  poems :  — 

"  Most  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  poetry,  indeed,  we  believe 
nearly  all  that  has  been  published,  appeared,  during 
his  college  life,  in  The  United-States  Literary  Gazette. 
It  displays  a  very  refined  taste  and  a  very  pure  vein  of 
poetical  feeling.  It  possesses  what  has  been  a  rare 
quality  in  the  American  poets,  —  simplicity  of  expres 
sion,  without  any  attempt  to  startle  the  reader,  or  to  pro 
duce  an  effect  by  far-sought  epithets.  There  is  much 
sweetness  in  his  imagery  and  language  ;  and  sometimes 
he  is  hardly  excelled  by  any  one  for  the  quiet  accuracy 


336  HENRY  WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

exhibited  in  his  pictures  of  natural  objects.    His  poetry 
will  not  easily  be  forgotten." 

The  dates  of  the  appearance  of  the  poems  are  here 
given :  — 

Thanksgiving.  — '  When  first  in  ancient  time,  from  Jubal's 
tongue.'  Nov.  15,  1824. 

Autumnal  Nightfall.  — '  Round  Autumn*  s  mouldering  urn.'  Dec. 
1,  1824. 

Italian  Scenery.  —  'Night  rests  in  beauty  on  Mont  Alto.'  Dec. 
15,  1824. 

The  Lunatic  Girl.  —  '  Most  beautiful,  most  gentle ! '  Jan.  1, 
1825. 

The  Venetian  Gondolier,  —  'Here  rest  the  weary  oar!'  Jan. 
15,  1825. 

Dirge  over  a  Nameless  Grave.  — '  By  yon  still  river,  where  the 
wave.'  March  15,  1825. 

A  Song  of  Savoy.  —  'As  the  dim  twilight  shrouds.'  March 
15,  1825. 

The  Indian  Hunter.  —  '  When  the  summer  harvest  was  gathered 
in.'  May  15,  1825. 

Jeckoyva.  —  'They  made  the  warrior's  grave  beside/  Aug. 
1,  1825. 

The  Sea  Diver.  —  'My  way  is  on  the  bright  blue  sea.'  Aug. 
15,  1825. 

Musings.  — '  I  sat  by  my  window  one  night.'     Nov.  15,  1825. 

Song.  —  'Where,  from  the  eye  of  day.'     April  1,  1826. 


THANKSGIVING. 

WHEN  first  in  ancient  time,  from  Jubal's  tongue 
The  tuneful  anthem  filled  the  morning  air, 
To  sacred  hymnings  and  elysian  song 
His  music-breathing  shell  the  minstrel  woke. 
Devotion  breathed  aloud  from  every  chord :  — 
The  voice  of  praise  was  heard  in  every  tone, 
And  prayer,  and  thanks  to  Him  the  eternal  one, 
To  Him,  that  with  bright  inspiration  touched 
The  high  and  gifted  lyre  of  heavenly  song, 


EARLY  POEMS.  337 

And  warmed  the  soul  with  new  vitality. 

A  stirring  energy  through  nature  breathed :  — 

The  voice  of  adoration  from  her  broke, 

Swelling  aloud  in  every  breeze,  and  heard 

Long  in  the  sullen  waterfall,  — what  time 

Soft  Spring  or  hoary  Autumn  threw  on  earth 

Its  bloom  or  blighting,  —  when  the  Summer  smiled, 

Or  Winter  o'er  the  year's  sepulchre  mourned. 

The  Deity  was  there !  —  a  nameless  spirit 

Moved  in  the  breasts  of  men  to  do  him  homage; 

And  when  the  morning  smiled,  or  evening  pale 

Hung  weeping  o'er  the  melancholy  urn, 

They  came  beneath  the  broad  o'erarching  trees, 

And  in  their  tremulous  shadow  worshipped  oft, 

Where  pale  the  vine  clung  round  their  simple  altars, 

And  gray  moss  mantling  hung.     Above  was  heard 

The  melody  of  winds,  breathed  out  as  the  green  trees 

Bowed  to  their  quivering  touch  in  living  beauty, 

And  birds  sang  forth  their  cheerful  hymns.     Below, 

The  bright  and  widely  wandering  rivulet 

Struggled  and  gushed  amongst  the  tangled  roots, 

That  choked  its  reedy  fountain  —  and  dark  rocks 

Worn  smooth  by  the  constant  current.     Even  there 

The  listless  wave,  that  stole  with  mellow  voice 

Where  reeds  grew  rank  on  the  rushy-fringed  brink, 

And  the  green  sedge  bent  to  the  wandering  wind, 

Sang  with  a  cheerful  song  of  sweet  tranquillity. 

Men  felt  the  heavenly  influence  —  and  it  stole 

Like  balm  into  their  hearts,  till  all  was  peace; 

And  even  the  air  they  breathed,  — the  light  they  saw,  — 

Became  religion,  —  for  the  ethereal  spirit 

That  to  soft  music  wakes  the  chords  of  feeling, 

And  mellows  every  thing  to  beauty,  —  moved 

With  cheering  energy  within  their  breasts, 

And  made  all  holy  there  —  for  all  was  love. 

The  morning  stars,  that  sweetly  sang  together  — 

The  moon,  that  hung  at  night  in  the  mid-sky  — 

Dayspring  —  and  eventide  —  and  all  the  fair 

And  beautiful  forms  of  nature,  had  a  voice 

Of  eloquent  worship.     Ocean  with  its  tides 

Swelling  and  deep,  where  low  the  infant  storm 

Hung  on  his  dun,  dark  cloud,  and  heavily  beat 


3—22 


338  HENRY   WADSWOBTH  LONGFELLOW. 

The  pulses  of  the  sea,  —  sent  forth  a  voice 

Of  awful  adoration  to  the  spirit, 

That,  wrapt  in  darkness,  moved  upon  its  face. 

And  when  the  bow  of  evening  arched  the  east, 

Or,  in  the  moonlight  pale,  the  curling  wave 

Kissed  with  a  sweet  embrace  the  sea-worn  beach, 

And  soft  the  song  of  winds  came  o'er  the  waters, 

The  mingled  melody  of  wind  and  wave 

Touched  like  a  heavenly  anthem  on  the  ear; 

For  it  arose  a  tuneful  hymn  of  worship. 

And  have  our  hearts  grown  cold  ?    Are  there  on  earth 

No  pure  reflections  caught  from  heavenly  light  ?  — 

Have  our  mute  lips  no  hymn  —  our  souls  no  song  ? — 

Let  him  that  in  the  summer-day  of  youth 

Keeps  pure  the  holy  fount  of  youthful  feeling,  — 

And  him  that  in  the  nightfall  of  his  years 

Lies  down  in  his  last  sleep,  and  shuts  in  peace 

His  dim  pale  eyes  on  life's  short  wayfaring, 

Praise  Him  that  rules  the  destiny  of  man. 

H.  W.  L. 
SUNDAY  EVENING,  October,  1824. 


AUTUMNAL  NIGHTFALL. 

ROUND  Autumn's  mouldering  urn, 
Loud  mourns  the  chill  and  cheerless  gale, 
When  nightfall  shades  the  quiet  vale, 

And  stars  in  beauty  burn. 

'Tis  the  year's  eventide. 
The  wind,  —  like  one  that  sighs  in  pain 
O'er  joys  that  ne'er  will  bloom  again, 

Mourns  on  the  far  hillside. 

And  yet  my  pensive  eye 
Rests  on  the  faint  blue  mountain  long, 
And  for  the  fairy-land  of  song, 

That  lies  beyond,  I  sigh, 

The  moon  unveils  her  brow; 
In  the  mid-sky  her  urn  glows  bright, 
And  in  her  sad  and  mellowing  light 

The  valley  sleeps  below. 


EARLY  POEMS.  339 

Upon  the  hazel  gray 
The  lyre  of  Autumn  hangs  unstrung, 
And  o'er  its  tremulous  chords  are  flung 

The  fringes  of  decay. 

I  stand  deep  musing  here, 
Beneath  the  dark  and  motionless  beech, 
Whilst  wandering  winds  of  nightfall  reach 

My  melancholy  ear. 

The  air  breathes  chill  and  free ; 
A  Spirit,  in  soft  music  calls 
From  Autumn's  gray  and  moss-grown  halls, 

And  round  her  wither' d  tree. 

i 

The  hoar  and  mantled  oak, 
With  moss  and  twisted  ivy  brown, 
Bends  in  its  lifeless  beauty  down 

Where  weeds  the  fountain  choke. 

That  fountain's  hollow  voice 
Echoes  the  sound  of  precious  things ;  — 
Of  early  feeling's  tuneful  springs 
Choked  with  our  blighted  joys. 

Leaves,  that  the  night-wind  bears 
To  earth's  cold  bosom  with  a  sigh, 
Are  types  of  our  mortality, 

And  of  our  fading  years. 

The  tree  that  shades  the  plain, 
Wasting  and  hoar  as  time  decays, 
Spring  shall  renew  with  cheerful  days,  — 

But  not  my  joys  again. 


ITALIAN  SCENERY. 

NIGHT  rests  in  beauty  on  Mont  Alto. 

Beneath  its  shade  the  beauteous  Arno  sleeps 
In  Vallombrosa's  bosom,  and  dark  trees 
Bend  with  a  calm  and  quiet  shadow  down 
Upon  the  beauty  of  that  silent  river. 
Still  in  the  west,  a  melancholy  smile 


340  HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

Mantles  the  lips  of  day,  and  twilight  pale 

Moves  like  a  spectre  in  the  dusky  sky; 

While  eve's  sweet  star  on  the  fast-fading  year 

Smiles  calmly:  —  Music  steals  at  intervals 

Across  the  water,  with  a  tremulous  swell, 

From  out  the  upland  dingle  of  tall  firs, 

And  a  faint  foot-fall  sounds,  where  dim  and  dark 

Hangs  the  gray  willow  from  the  river's  brink, 

O'ershadowing  its  current.     Slowly  there 

The  lover's  gondola  drops  down  the  stream, 

Sileilt,  —  save  when  its  dipping  oar  is  heard, 

Or  in  its  eddy  sighs  the  rippling  wave. 

Mouldering  and  moss-grown,  through  the  lapse  of  years, 

In  motionless  beauty  stands  the  giant  oak, 

Whilst  those,  that  saw  its  green  and  flourishing  youth, 

Are  gone  and  are  forgotten.     Soft  the  fount, 

Whose  secret  springs  the  star-light  pale  discloses, 

Gushes  in  hollow  music,  and  beyond 

The  broader  river  sweeps  its  silent  way, 

Mingling  a  silver  current  with  that  sea, 

Whose  waters  have  no  tides,  coming  nor  going. 

On  noiseless  wing  along  that  fair  blue  sea 

The  halcyon  flits,  —  and  where  the  wearied  storm 

Left  a  loud  moaning,  all  is  peace  again. 

A  calm  is  on  the  deep !    The  winds  that  came 
O'er  the  dark  sea-surge  with  a  tremulous  breathing, 
And  mourned  on  the  dark  cliff  where  weeds  grew  rank, 
And  to  the  autumnal  death-dirge  the  deep  sea 
Heaved  its  long  billows,  —  with  a  cheerless  song 
Have  pass'd  away  to  the  cold  earth  again, 
Like  a  way-faring  mourner.     Silently 
Up  from  the  calm  sea's  dim  and  distant  verge, 
Full  and  unveiled  the  moon's  broad  disk  emerges. 
On  Tivoli,  and  where  the  fairy  hues 
Of  autumn  glow  upon  Abruzzi's  woods, 
The  silver  light  is  spreaJing.     Far  above, 
Encompassed  with  their  thin,  cold  atmosphere, 
The  Apennines  uplift  their  snowy  brows, 
Glowing  with  colder  beauty,  where  unheard 
The  eagle  screams  in  the  fathomless  ether, 
And  stays  his  wearied  wing.     Here  let  us  pause! 
The  spirit  of  these  solitudes  — •  the  soul 


EARLY  POEMS.  341 

That  dwells  within  these  steep  and  difficult  places  — 

Speaks  a  mysterious  language  to  mine  own, 

And  brings  unutterable  musings.     Earth 

Sleeps  in  the  shades  of  nightfall,  and  the  sea 

Spreads  like  a  thin  blue  haze  beneath  my  feet, 

Whilst  the  gray  columns  and  the  mouldering  tombs 

Of  the  Imperial  City,  hidden  deep 

Beneath  the  mantle  of  their  shadows,  rest. 

My  spirit  looks  on  earth !  —  A  heavenly  voice 

Comes  silently:  "Dreamer,  is  earth  thy  dwelling?  — 

Lo!  nursed  within  that  fair  and  fruitful  bosom 

Which  has  sustained  thy  being,  and  within 

The  colder  breast  of  Ocean,  lie  the  germs 

Of  thine  own  dissolution!    E'en  the  air, 

That  fans  the  clear  blue  sky  and  gives  thee  strength  — 

Up  from  the  sullen  lake  of  mouldering  reeds, 

And  the  wide  waste  of  forest,  where  the  osier 

Thrives  in  the  damp  and  motionless  atmosphere, — 

Shall  bring  the  dire  and  wasting  pestilence 

And  blight  thy  cheek.     Dream  thou  of  higher  things ;  — 

This  world  is  not  thy  home ! "     And  yet  my  eye 

Rests  upon  earth  again !    How  beautiful, 

Where  wild  Yelino  heaves  its  sullen  waves 

Down  the  high  cliff  of  gray  and  shapeless  granite,  — 

Hung  on  the  curling  mist,  the  moonlight  bow 

Arches  the  perilous  river.     A  soft  light 

Silvers  the  Albanian  mountains,  and  the  haze 

That  rests  upon  their  summits,  mellows  down 

The  austerer  features  of  their  beauty.     Faint 

And  dim-discovered  glow  the  Sabine  hills, 

And  listening  to  the  sea's  monotonous  shell, 

High  on  the  cliffs  of  Terracina  stands 

The  castle  of  the  royal  Goth  *  in  ruins. 

But  night  is  in  her  wane:  —  day's  early  flush 
Glows  like  a  hectic  on  her  fading  cheek, 
Wasting  its  beauty.     And  the  opening  dawn 
With  cheerful  lustre  lights  the  royal  city, 
Where  with  its  proud  tiara  of  dark  towers, 
It  sleeps  upon  its  own  romantic  bay. 

*  Theodoric. 


ii42  HENRY   WADSWORT1I  LONGFELLOW. 


THE  LUNATIC  GIRL. 

MOST  beautiful,  most  gentle !    Yet  how  lost 

To  all  that  gladdens  the  fair  earth;  the  eye 

That  watched  her  being;  the  maternal  care 

That  kept  and  nourished  her;  and  the  calm  light 

That  steals  from  our  own  thoughts,  and  softly  rests 

On  youth's  green  valleys  and  smooth-sliding  waters. 

Alas !  few  suns  of  life,  and  fewer  winds, 

Had  withered  or  had  wasted  the  fresh  rose 

That  bloomed  upon  her  cheek ;  but  one  chill  frost 

Came  in  that  early  Autumn,  when  ripe  thought 

Is  rich  and  beautiful,  — and  blighted  it; 

And  the  fair  stalk  grew  languid  day  by  day, 

Arid  drooped,  —  and  drooped,  and  shed  its  many  leaves, 

'Tis  said  that  some  have  died  of  love,  and  some, 

That  once  from  beauty's  high  romance  had  caught 

Love's  passionate  feelings  and  heart- wasting  cares, 

Have  spurned  life's  threshold  with  a  desperate  foot: 

And  others  have  gone  mad,  —  and  she  was  one !  — 

Her  lover  died  at  sea;  and  they  had  felt 

A  coldness  for  each  other  when  they  parted ; 

But  love  returned  again,  and  to  her  ear 

Came  tidings,  that  the  ship  which  bore  her  lover 

Had  suddenly  gone  down  at  sea,  and  all  were  lost. 

I  saw  her  in  her  native  vale,  when  high 

The  aspiring  lark  up  from  the  reedy  river 

Mounted,  on  cheerful  pinion;  and  she  sat 

Casting  smooth  pebbles  into  a  clear  fountain, 

And  marking  how  they  sunk ;  and  oft  she  sighed 

For  him  that  perished  thus  in  the  vast  deep. 

She  had  a  sea-shell,  that  her  lover  brought 

From  the  far-distant  ocean,  and  she  pressed 

Its  smooth  cold  lips  unto  her  ear,  and  thought 

It  whispered  tidings  of  the  dark  blue  sea ; 

And  sad,  she  cried:  "  The  tides  are  out!  —  and  now 

I  see  his  corse  upon  the  stormy  beach! " 

Around  her  neck  a  string  of  rose-lipped  shells, 

And  coral,  and  white  pearl,  was  loosely  hung, 

And  close  beside  her  lay  a  delicate  fan, 

Made  of  the  halcyon's  blue  wing;  and  Avhen 

She  look'd  upon  it,  it  would  calm  her  thoughts 


EAELY  POEMS.  343 

As  that  bird  calms  the  ocean,  —  for  it  gave 

Mournful,  yet  pleasant  memory.     Once  I  marked, 

When  through  tne  mountain  hollows  and  green  woods, 

That  bent  beneath  its  footsteps,  the  loud  wind 

Came  with  a  voice  as  of  the  restless  deep, 

She  raised  her  head,  and  on  her  pale  cold  cheek 

A  beauty  of  diviner  seeming  came: 

And  then  she  spread  her  hands,  and  smiled,  as  if 

She  welcomed  a  long-absent  friend,  —  and  then 

Shrunk  timorously  back  again,  and  wept. 

I  turned  away:  a  multitude  of  thoughts, 

Mournful  and  dark,  were  crowding  on  my  mind; 

And  as  I  left  that  lost  and  ruined  one, 

A  living  monument  that  still  on  earth 

There  is  warm  love  and  deep  sincerity, — 

She  gazed  upon  the  west,  where  the  blue  sky 

Held,  like  an  ocean,  in  its  wide  embrace 

Those  fairy  islands  of  bright  cloud,  that  lay 

So  calm  and  quietly  in  the  thin  ether. 

And  then  she  pointed  where,  alone  and  high, 

One  little  cloud  sailed  onward,  like  a  lost 

And  wandering  bark,  and  fainter  grew,  and  fainter, 

And  soon  was  swallowed  up  in  the  blue  depths. 

And  when  it  sunk  away,  she  turned  again 

With  sad  despondency  and  tears  to  earth. 

Three  long  and  weary  months,  —  yet  not  a  whisper 
Of  stern  reproach  for  that  cold  parting!    Then 
She  sat  no  longer  by  her  favorite  fountain !  — 
She  was  at  rest  forever. 


THE  VENETIAN  GONDOLIER. 

HERE  rest  the  weary  oar!  —  soft  airs 
Breathe  out  in  the  o'erarching  sky; 

And  Night !  —  sweet  Night  —  serenely  wears 
A  smile  of  peace ;  —  her  noon  is  nigh. 

Where  the  tall  fir  in  quiet  stands, 
And  waves,  embracing  the  chaste  shores, 

Move  o'er  sea-shells  and  bright  sands,-— 
Is  heard  the  sound  of  dipping  oars. 


HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

Swift  o'er  the  wave  the  light  bark  springs, 
Love's  midnight  hour  draws  lingering  near: 

And  list !  —  his  tuneful  viol  strings 
The  young  Venetian  Gondolier. 

Lo!  on  the  silver-mirrored  deep, 
On  earth,  and  her  embosomed  lakes, 

And  where  the  silent  rivers  sweep,  — 
From  the  thin  cloud  fair  moonlight  breaks. 

Soft  music  breathes  around,  and  dies 

On  the  calm  bosom  of  the  sea; 
Whilst  in  her  cell  the  novice  sighs 

Her  vespers  to  her  rosary. 

At  their  dim  altars  bow  fair  forms, 

In  tender  charity  for  those, 
That,  helpless  left  to  life's  rude  storms, 

Have  never  found  this  calm  repose. 

The  bell  swings  to  its  midnight  chime, 
Eelieved  against  the  deep  blue  sky! 

Haste!  —  dip  the  oar  again!  — 'tis  time 
To  seek  Genevra's  balcony. 


DIRGE  OVER  A  NAMELESS   GRAVE. 

BY  yon  still  river,  where  the  wave 
Is  winding  slow  at  evening's  close, 

The  beech,  upon  a  nameless  grave, 
Its  sadly-moving  shadow  throws. 

O'er  the  fair  woods  the  sun  looks  down 
Upon  the  many-twinkling  leaves, 

And  twilight's  mellow  shades  are  brown, 
Where  darkly  the  green  turf  upheaves. 

The  river  glides  in  silence  there, 
And  hardly  waves  the  sapling  tree: 

Sweet  flowers  are  springing,  and  the  air 
Is  full  of  balm,  — but  where  is  she! 


EARLY  POEMS.  345 

They  bade  her  wed  a  son  of  pride, 

And  leave  the  hopes  she  cherish' d  long: 
She  loved  but  one,  —  and  would  not  hide 

A  love  which  knew  no  wrong. 

And  months  went  sadly  on,  —  and  years:  — 

And  she  was  wasting  day  by  day: 
At  length  she  died,  — and  many  tears 

Were  shed,  that  she  should  pass  away. 

Then  came  a  gray  old  man,  and  knelt 

With  bitter  weeping  by  her  tomb:  — 
And  others  mourned  for  him,  who  felt 

That  he  had  sealed  a  daughter's  doom. 

The  funeral  train  has  long  past  on, 

And  time  wiped  dry  the  father's  tear! 
Farewell,  —  lost  maiden !  —  there  is  one 

That  mourns  thee  yet,  —  and  he  is  here. 


A  SONG  OF  SAYOY. 

As  the  dim  twilight  shrouds 
The  mountain's  purple  crest, 

And  summer's  white  and  folded  clouds 
Are  glowing  in  the  west, 

Loud  shouts  come  up  the  rocky  dell, 

And  voices  hail  the  evening-bell. 

Faint  is  the  goatherd's  song, 
And  sighing  comes  the  breeze  : 

The  silent  river  sweeps  along 
Amid  its  bending  trees,  — 

And  the  full  moon  shines  faintly  there, 

And  music  fills  the  evening  air. 

Beneath  the  waving  firs 
The  tinkling  cymbals  sound  ; 

And  as  the  wind  the  foliage  stirs, 
I  see  the  dancers  bound 

Where  the  green  branches,  arched  above, 

Bend  over  this  fa::-  scene  of  love. 


346  HENRY   WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

And  he  is  there,  that  sought 

My  young  heart  long  ago ! 
But  he  has  left  me,  —  though  I  thought 

He  ne'er  could  leave  me  so. 
Ah!  lovers'  vows,  —  how  frail  are  they! 
And  his  —  were  made  but  yesterday. 

Why  comes  he  not  ?    I  call 

In  tears  upon  him  yet ;  — 
'Twere  better  ne'er  to  love  at  all, 

Than  love,  and  then  forget! 
Why  comes  he  not  ?    Alas !    I  should 
Reclaim  him  still,  if  weeping  could. 

But  see,  —  he  leaves  the  glade, 

And  beckons  me  away: 
He  comes  to  seek  his  mountain  maid!  — 

I  cannot  chide  his  stay. 
Glad  sounds  along  the  valley  swell, 
And  voices  hail  the  evening-bell 

THE  IMHAN  HUNTER. 

WHEN  the  summer  harvest  was  gathered  in, 
And  the  sheaf  of  the  gleaner  grew  white  and  thin, 
And  the  ploughshare  was  in  its  furrow  left, 
Where  the  stubble  land  had  been  lately  cleft, 
An  Indian  hunter,  with  unstrung  bow, 
Looked  down  where  the  valley  lay  stretched  below. 

He  was  a  stranger  there,  and  all  that  day 
Had  been  out  on  the  hills,  a  perilous  way, 
But  the  foot  of  the  deer  was  far  and  fleet, 
And  the  wolf  kept  aloof  from  the  hunter's  feet, 
And  bitter  feelings  passed  o'er  him  then, 
As  he  stood  by  the  populous  haunts  of  men. 

The  winds  of  autumn  came  over  the  woods 
As  the  sun  stole  out  from  their  solitudes, 
The  moss  was  white  on  the  maple's  tmnk, 
And  dead  from  its  arms  the  pale  vine  shrunk, 
And  ripened  the  mellow  fruit  hung,  and  red 
Were  the  tree's  wither' d  leaves  round  it  shed. 


EARLY  POEMS.  347 

The  foot  of  the  reaper  moved  slow  on  the  lawn, 
And  the  sickle  cut  down  the  yellow  corn,  — 
The  mower  sung  loud  by  the  meadow-side, 
Where  the  mists  of  evening  were  spreading  wide, 
And  the  voice  of  the  herdsman  came  up  the  lea, 
And  the  dance  went  round  by  the  greenwood  tree. 

Then  the  hunter  turned  away  from  that  scene, 
Where  the  home  of  his  fathers  once  had  been, 
And  heard  by  the  distant  and  measured  stroke, 
That  the  woodman  hewed  down  the  giant  oak, 
And  burning  thoughts  flashed  over  his  mind 
Of  the  white  man's  faith,  and  love  unkind. 

The  moon  of  the  harvest  grew  high  and  bright, 
As  her  golden  horn  pierced  the  cloud  of  white  — 
A  footstep  was  heard  in  the  rustling  brake, 
Where  the  beech  overshadowed  the  misty  lake, 
And  a  mourning  voice,  and  a  plunge  from  shore ;  — 
And  the  hunter  was  seen  on  the  hills  no  more. 

When  years  had  passed  on,  by  that  still  lakeside 
The  fisher  looked  down  through  the  silver  tide, 
And  there,  on  the  smooth  yellow  sand  displayed, 
A  skeleton  wasted  and  white  was  laid, 
And  'twas  seen,  as  the  waters  moved  deep  and  slow, 
That  the  hand  was  still  grasping  a  hunter's  bow. 


JECKOYVA. 

The  Indian  chief,  Jcckoyva,  as  tradition  says,  perished  alone  on  the  mountain 
which  now  bears  his  name.  Night  overtook  him  whilst  hunting  among  the  cliffs 
and  he  was  not  heard  of  till  after  a  long  time,  when  his  half-decayed  corpse  was 
found  at  the  foot  of  a  high  rock,  over  which  he  must  have  fallen.  Mount  Jeckoyva 
is  near  the  White  Hills. 

THEY  made  the  warrior's  grave  beside 
The  dashing  of  his  native  tide : 
And  there  was  mourning  in  the  glen  — 
The  strong  wail  of  a  thousand  men  — 

O'er  him  thus  fallen  in  his  pride, 
Ere  mist  of  age  —  or  blight  or  blast 
Had  o'er  his  mighty  spirit  past. 


348  HENRY   WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

They  made  the  warrior's  grave  beneath 
The  bending  of  the  wild  elm's  wreath, 
When  the  dark  hunter's  piercing  eye 
Had  found  that  mountain  rest  on  high, 

Where,  scattered  by  the  sharp  wind's  breath, 
Beneath  the  rugged  cliff  were  thrown 
The  strong  belt  and  the  mouldering  bone. 

Where  was  the  warrior's  foot,  when  first 
The  red  sun  on  the  mountain  burst  ?  — 
Where —  when  the  sultry  noon-time  came 
On  the  green  vales  with  scorching  flame, 

And  made  the  woodlands  faint  with  thirst  ? 
'Twas  where  the  wind  is  keen  and  loud, 
And  the  gray  eagle  breasts  the  cloud. 

Where  was  the  warrior's  foot,  when  night 
Veil'd  in  thick  cloud  the  mountain-height  ? 
None  heard  the  loud  and  sudden  crash,  — 
None  saw  the  fallen  warrior  dash 

Down  the  bare  rock  so  high  and  white !  — 
But  he  that  drooped  not  in  the  chase 
Made  on  the  hills  his  burial-place. 

They  found  him  there,  when  the  long  day 
Of  cold  desertion  passed  away, 
And  traces  on  that  barren  cleft 
Of  struggling  hard  with  death  were  left  — 
Deep  marks  and  foot-prints  in  the  clay ! 
And  they  have  laid  this  feathery  helm 
By  the  dark  river  and  green  elm. 


THE   SEA-DIVER. 

MY  way  is  on  the  bright  blue  sea, 
My  sleep  upon  its  rocking  tide ; 

And  many  an  eye  has  followed  me 

Where  billows  clasp  the  worn  sea-side. 

My  plumage  bears  the  crimson  blush, 
When  ocean  by  the  sun  is  kissed ! 

When  fades  the  evening's  purple  flush, 
My  dark  wing  cleaves  the  silver  mist. 


EARLY  POEMS.  349 

Full  many  a  fathom  down  beneath 

That  bright  arch  of  the  splendid  deep 
My  ear  has  heard  the  sea-shell  breathe 

O'er  living  myriads  in  their  sleep. 

They  rested  by  the  coral  throne, 

And  by  the  pearly  diadem ; 
Where  the  pale  sea-grape  had  o'ergrown 

The  glorious  dwellings  made  for  them. 

At  night  upon  my  storm-drenched  wing, 

I  poised  above  a  helmless  bark, 
And  soon  I  saw  the  shattered  thing 

Had  pass'd  away  and  left  no  mark. 

And  when  the  wind  and  storm  were  done, 

A  ship,  that  had  rode  out  the  gale, 
Sunk  down  —  without  a  signal  gun, 

And  none  was  left  to  tell  the  tale. 

I  saw  the  pomp  of  day  depart,  — 

The  cloud  resign  its  golden  crown, 
When  to  the  ocean's  beating  heart, 

The  sailor's  wasted  corse  went  down. 

Peace  be  to  those  whose  graves  are  made 

Beneath  the  bright  and  silver  sea!  — 
Peace  —  that  their  relics  there  were  laid 

With  no  vain  pride  and  pageantry. 


MUSINGS. 

I  SAT  by  my  window  one  night, 
And  watched  how  the  stars  grew  high ; 

And  the  earth  and  skies  were  a  splendid  sight 
To  a  sober  and  musing  eye. 

From  heaven  the  silver  moon  shone  down 

With  gentle  and  mellow  ray, 
And  beneath  the  crowded  roofs  of  the  town 

In  broad  light  and  cliadow  lay. 


350     UENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

A  glory  was  on  the  silent  sea, 
And  mainland  and  island  too, 

Till  a  haze  came  over  the  lowland  lea, 
And  shrouded  that  beautiful  blue. 

Bright  in  the  moon  the  autumn  wood 

Its  crimson  scarf  unrolled, 
And  the  trees  like  a  splendid  army  stood 

In  a  panoply  of  gold ! 

I  saw  them  waving  their  banners  high, 
As  their  crests  to  the  night  wind  bowed, 

And  a  distant  sound  on  the  air  went  by, 
Like  the  whispering  of  a  crowd. 

Then  I  watched  from  my  window  how  fast 

The  lights  all  around  me  fled, 
As  the  wearied  man  to  his  slumber  passed 

And  the  sick  one  to  his  bed. 

All  faded  save  one,  that  burned 
With  distant  and  steady  light; 

But  that,  too,  went  out,  —  and  I  turned 
Where  my  own  lamp  within  shone  bright! 

Thus,  thought  I,  our  joys  must  die, 
Yes  —  the  brightest  from  earth  we  win : 

Till  each  turns  away,  with  a  sigh, 
To  the  lamp  that  burns  brightly  within. 


SONG. 

WHERE,  from  the  eye  of  day, 

The  dark  and  silent  river 
Pursues  through  tangled  woods  a  way 

O'er  which  the  tall  trees  quiver; 

The  silver  mist,  that  breaks 
From  out  that  woodland  cover, 

Betrays  the  hidden  path  it  takes 
And  hangs  the  current  over! 

So  oft  the  thoughts  that  burst 
From  hidden  springs  of  feeling, 

Like  silent  streams,  unseen  at  first, 
From  our  cold  hearts  are  stealing: 


EARLY  POEMS.  351 

But  soon  the  clouds  that  veil 

The  eye  of  Love,  when  glowing, 
Betray  the  long  unwhispered  tale 

Of  thoughts  in  darkness  flowing! 


TWO  SONNETS   FROM   THE   SPANISH  OF   FRANCISCO  DE 
MEDRANO.1 

I. 

ART  AND  NATURE. 

THE  works  of  human  artifice  soon  tire 
The  curious  eye;  the  fountain's  sparkling  rill, 
And  gardens,  when  adorned  by  human  skill, 
Reproach  the  feeble  hand,  the  vain  desire. 
But,  O !  the  free  and  wild  magnificence 
Of  Nature,  in  her  lavish  hours,  doth  steal, 
In  admiration  silent  and  intense, 
The  soul  of  him,  who  hath  a  soul  to  feel. 
The  river  moving  on  its  ceaseless  way, 
The  verdant  reach  of  meadows  fair  and  green, 
And  the  blue  hills,  that  bound  the  sylvan  scene, 
These  speak  of  grandeur,  that  defies  decay,  — 
Proclaim  the  Eternal  Architect  on  high, 
Who  stamps  on  all  his  works  his  own  eternity. 

II. 
THE  Two  HARVESTS. 

BUT  yesterday  these  few  and  hoary  sheaves 
Waved  in  the  golden  harvest ;  from  the  plain 
I  saw  the  blade  shoot  upward,  and  the  grain 
Put  forth  the  unripe  ear  and  tender  leaves. 

Then  the  glad  upland  smiled  upon  the  view, 
And  to  the  air  the  broad  green  leaves  unrolled, 
A  peerless  emerald  in  each  silken  fold, 
And  on  each  palm  a  pearl  of  morning  dew. 

1  These  Sonnets  appeared  in  Mr.  Longfellow's  first  volume,  "Coplas  de  Don 
Jorge  Manrique,  translated  from  the  Spanish,  with  an  introductory  essay  on  the 
Moral  and  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain.  By  Henry  W.  Longfellow,  Professor  of 
Mod.  Lang,  and  Lit.  in  Bowdoin  College."  Boston  :  Allen  &  Ticknor,  1833.  pp. 
85-87.  They  were  accompanied  by  the  Spanish  original  on  the  opposite  page. 


352  HENRY  WADSWOETH  LONGFELLOW. 

And  thus  sprang  up  and  ripened  in  brief  space 
All  that  beneath  the  reaper's  sickle  died, 
All  that  smiled  beauteous  in  the  summer-tide. 

And  what  are  we  ?  a  copy  of  that  race, 
The  later  harvest  of  a  longer  year ! 
And,  O!  how  many  fall  before  the  ripened  ear! 


INDEX. 


Abbott,  Jacob,  25. 
Abbott,  John  S.  C.,  26. 
Acadie,  present  state  of,  77-79. 
Advertiser,  Boston,  234,  238-241. 
"Aftermath,"  106,  290. 
Afternoon,    an,   at   Craigie    House, 

173-176. 

Agassiz,  Louis,  death  of,  127. 
Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  106. 
"A.lgic  Researches,"  86,  87. 
American  literature  in  1825,  260. 
American,  The,  262. 
Ancestry,  11-19. 

ANECDOTES  AND  LETTERS,  167-258. 
Apocryphal  poem,  an,  223-225. 
Appleton,   Capt.  Nathan,   180,  193, 

212,  213. 

Appleton  Chapel,  162;  memorial 
service  in,  131-133. 

Appleton,  Fanny  Elizabeth,  mar 
riage  to,  55;  death  of,  56;  allu 
sions  to,  57,  157,  165,  205,  249. 

Appleton,  Nathan,  29, 46,  47,  55,  57; 
sketch  of,  by  Hon.  R.  C.  Win- 
throp,  57,  5.8. 

Appleton,  Thomas  G.,  55,  57;  pos 
sessor  of  "the  old  clock  on  the 
stairs,"  72,  73. 

Apt  quotation,  an,  203. 

Arm-chair,  the  children's,  117-121, 
154,  220,  248. 

Argyll,  Duke  of,  178,  219,  233. 
Atlantic  Monthly,  33-35,  109,  207. 
Autographs,  223,  242,  243. 
"Autumnal  Nightfall,  "336, 338, 339. 

"Ballads  and  Other  Poems,"  65. 
Barber,  criticised  by  a,  192. 
Bartol,  Rev,  C.  A.,  310,  140-145. 


Bates,  Charlotte  Fiske,  126,  130, 147; 
sonnet  by,  314. 

Bates,  Fletcher,  poem  by,  322,  323. 

Bates,  Katharine  Lee,  poems  by, 
3!3»  323>  324. 

Baxter,  James  P.,  poem  by,  315-319. 

"Belfry  of  Bruges,  The,"  70-72. 

Bells,  love  of,  223,  224. 

Benevolence,  157-162,  214,  218. 

Benjamin,  Park,  197;  note  of,  198. 

BIOGRAPHY,  9-166. 

Birthday  Book,  the  Longfellow,  126. 

Birthplace,  9,  24;  anecdote,  230, 231. 

Blackwood's  Magazine,  88. 

Blake,  J.  Vila,  poem  by,  330,  331. 

Bonner,  Robert,  anecdote  of,  236. 

"Bonnie  George  Campbell,"  bal 
lad,  210-212. 

Book  Bulletin,  253,  254,  299,  300. 

Bowdoin  College,  9,  26-40;  "  Mori- 
turi  Salutamus,"  107-109;  Parker 
Cleaveland  memorial  tablet,  no. 

Boyhood,  25,  26. 

Brooks,  Rev.  Phillips,  D.D.,  304. 

Brunswick,  Me.,  10,  u,  39,  109. 

Brunton,  William,  sonnet,  322. 

Bryant,  William  C.,  9,  28,  107,  132, 
217-219,  258,  260,  277. 

"  Building  of  the  Ship,  The,"  81. 

Bull,  Ole,  94. 

Bunner,  H.  C.,  poem  by,  326. 

Byfield,  Mass.,  12,  15,  16,  230. 

Cambridge,  removal  to,  39 ;  resi 
dence  in,  46-54,  193, 232,  243-248; 
First  Citizen,  118;  anniversary  of, 
121 ;  in  mourning,  128  ;  society  of, 
157,  243,  244. 

Canada,  influence  in,  278,  279. 
353 


354 


INDEX. 


"  Catawba  Wine,"  203,  204. 
Chase,  Sydney,  249-253. 
Cheever,  George  B.,  26,  325,  326. 
C  hestnut-tree,  the  old,  247,  248. 
Children,  love  of,  122-125,  173,  241, 

246,  256,  257. 
"Children  of  the   Lord's    Supper, 

The,"  origin  of,  235. 
Childs,  George  W.,  letter  to,   187; 

incident  told  by,  248,  249. 
"  Christus,  a  Mystery,"  102. 
"Churchyard    at     Cambridge,     In 

the,"  47,  48. 
Clark,  Henry  H.,  reminiscences,  22, 

74, 103, 107,  108, 112, 115-117,232, 

242,243,247,248;  sonnets,  329,330. 
Cleaveland,    Parker,    15;  memorial 

tablet  and  epitaph,  109,  no. 
Coleridge's  inkstand,  154,  179,  216, 

217,  241,  266. 
Conover,  O.  M.,  poem  of,  attributed 

to  Mr.  Longfellow,  205-207. 
Cook,  Eliza,  letter  to,  214,  215. 
Coomer,  George  II.,  poem  by,  329. 
"Coplas  de  Manrique,"  30. 
Courtesy,  39,  43,  176-181,  264,  300. 
"Courtship     of    Miles     Standish, 

The,  "90,  240. 
Craigie,  Andrew,  48,  50. 
Craigie  House,  46-54;  age  of,  50; 

objects  of  interest  in,  52-54;  old 

clock,  71,  72;   described  by  visit 
ors,  153,  154,  173-176,  253,  254; 

incidents  concerning,  204;  visit  of 

a  rural  party,  229,  230. 
Craigie,  Mrs.  Andrew,  46,  48-50. 
Critic,  The,  298,  299. 
Curtis,  George  W.,  33,  34,  46,  81, 

94,  96,  97,  13°,  134,  i355  22°- 
Cushman,  Bazaleel,  25,  332. 

Dana,  Richard  H.,  note  of,  216. 
Dante,  96-103 ;  in  Dutch,  252,  253; 
translator  of,  270;  sonnet  on,  271. 
Dante  Society,  101,  102. 
Dazey,  Charles  T.,  sonnet,  323. 


Deane,  Margery,  188,  189. 

Death,  128. 

Degrees  conferred,  104,  105. 

Dickens,  Charles,  214;  autograph 
letter  of,  240. 

"  Dirge  over  a  Nameless  Grave," 
336,  344,  345- 

Ditson,  Oliver,  &  Co.,  187. 

"Divine  Comedy,  The,"  transla 
tion  of,  96-102;  Professor  C.  E. 
Norton  on,  97,  98;  Carlyle's  ver 
sion,  99 ;  Professor  C.  L.  Speranza 
on,  99-101. 

"  Divine  Tragedy,  The,"  102,  103; 
re-written,  151. 

Dobson,  Austin,  poem  by,  328. 

Dom  Pedro  II.,  92,  94,  183,  184. 

Downs,  Annie  S.,  poem  by,  313. 

EARLY  POEMS,  335-352. 
Echo,  The  London,  303,  304. 
Eclectic  Magazine,  The,  285-289. 
Edition  de  luxe,  210. 
Ellis,  Emily  B.,  poem  by,  327. 
Ellis,  Rev.  George,  D.D.,  279,280. 
Elwell,  E.  II.,  historian,  20-24. 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  9,  116,  130, 

131,  192,  278. 
England,  a  favorite  poet  in,  147,  182, 

183,  213,  214,  278,  291. 
"Estray,  The,"  73. 
"  Evangeline,"    73-79,     230,    266; 

popularity  in  Canada,  279. 
Everett,   Dr.  C.  C.,  107;   memorial 

address,  132,  133. 
"  Everybody's  poet,"  181,  183,  233, 

259,  262,  264,  267,  285,  291,  294. 
"Excelsior,"  65,  182,  238;  his  own 

explanation  of,  202,  203  ;  parodies 

of,  215,  240;  criticism  of,  288. 

Faed's  "  Evangeline,"  73. 
Favorite  saint,  250. 
Favorite  sculptures,  167,  168. 
Felton,    President,  C.   C.,  15,  170, 
171;  on  romantic  style,  290. 


INDEX. 


355 


Fields,  James  T.,  161,  181,  182,  190. 
First  literary  venture,  254,  255. 
First  poem,  195. 
"Five  of  Clubs,  The,"  171,  172. 
Fletcher,  Rev.  J.  C.,  183,  184. 
"Flower-de-Luce,"  96. 
Flowers,  love  of,  178,  189. 
Fuller,  Margaret,  44,  1 72  ;   effect  of 

criticisms     on     Longfellow     ana 

Lowell,  264-266. 
Funeral  services,  129-133. 

Garfield  sonnet,  anecdote,  151,  152. 
GENERAL  CRITICISM,  259-306. 
Gentleness  and  grace,  249-252,  256. 
German  literature,  61,  62;  his  style 

influenced  by,  290. 
German    verse,    faithful   translator 

of,  268-270. 

Germany,  popularity  in,  291. 
Gilfillan,  George,  75. 
Gilman,  Arthur,  234. 
"Golden  Legend,  The,"  81-84,  102, 

227,  276. 

Gray,  Rev.  George  Z.,  D.D.,  304. 
Greene,  George  W.,  222. 

Hale,  Rev.  Edward  E.,  42,  43. 
Hamlin,  President,  39. 
Handwriting,  41,  151,  232. 
"  Hanging  of  the  Crane,  The,"  106; 

bought  by  Robert  Bonner,  236. 
Hardy,  Lady  Duffus,  225,  226. 
Harrison,  Professor  J.  A.,  271-275. 
Harte,  Bret,  299. 
Harvard  College,  40-44,  63. 
Harvard  P.egister,  no,  262,  323. 
Haweis,  Rev.  H.  R.,  165,  166. 
Hawthorne,    Nathaniel,   9,   26,  27, 

54;  origin  of  "  Evangeline,"  73, 

74 ;  death  of,  96. 
Hayne,  Paul  H.,  poems,  312,  332, 

333- 
"  Hermes,  Trismegistus,"  188,  237 


Hervey,  D.  E.,  list  of  poems  set  to 
music,  184-187. 

"Hiawatha,"  84-90;  popularity  of, 
85;  E.  E.  Hale  on,  85-87;  con 
troversy  regarding,  87,  88;  Dr. 
O.  W.  Holmes  on,  89,  90; 
read  at  memorial  service,  132 ;  in 
cident  in  Kansas,  195,  196. 

Hickok,  Eliza  M.,  poem  by,  327. 

Higginson,  Col.  T.  W.,  25,  28,  40, 
41,  60-62. 

Holmes,  Dr.  O.  W.,  5,  9,  34,  35,  65, 
129,  130,  187,  192,  235,  258,  278; 
on  "Evangeline,"  76,  77;  at 
Sanders  Theatre,  121  ;  address, 
292-297. 

Hospitality,  141,  299. 

Houghton,  Lord,  anecdote  of,  232. 

Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co.,  207. 

Howard,  Apphia,  221,  222. 

Howe,  Mrs.  Julia  Ward,   172,  238. 

Howells,  William  D.,  61,  129,  130, 
262,  263,  272. 

Humor,  152,  153,  190,  193. 

"Hyperion,"  54,  55,  58,  59,  226, 
284,  285 ;  Col.  Higginson  on, 
60-62;  Charles  Sumner  on,  63. 

Immortality  of  Longfellow's  fame, 
295,  296,  300. 

Independent,  The  N.  Y.,  280-282. 
"Indian  Hunter,"  336,  346,  347. 
Influence  on  American  Literature, 

260,  261. 

Interview  with  a  Frenchman,   167. 
Irving,  Washington,  33,  34,  260. 
"Italian    Scenery,"   336,    339-341. 

"  Jeckoyva,"  336,  347,  348. 

Johnson,  Rev.  Franklin,  tribute  of, 
146,  147,  163,  164. 

Journalist,  reminiscences  of  a  Bos 
ton,  189-191. 

Juvenile  poems,  6,  28,  196,  254,  255. 

"  Kavanagh, "  80,  81. 
Kellogg,  Rev.  Elijah,  21. 


356 


INDEX. 


"KeVamos,"  no,  in,  200,201,267. 

Kindness,  instances  of,  157-162, 
173,  178-181,  242,249,257. 

King,  Moses,  and  the  sonnet  to 
Garfield,  151,  152. 

"  King  Robert  of  Sicily,"  trans 
lated  by  Dom  Pedro,  94. 

Kingsley,  Charles,  poem  attributed 
to,  104;  cited,  256. 

Languages,  thorough  knowledge  of, 
42,  43,  69,  153,  209. 

Lanman,  Charles,  197-202. 

Last  published  poem,  207,  208. 

Last  letters,  one  of,  237. 

Last  illness,  death,  and  burial, 
126-133. 

"  Laus  Laureati"  315-319. 

Le  May,  Pamphile,  translator  of 
"  Evangeline,"  278,  279. 

Liszt,  portrait  of,  53. 

Literary  World,  The,  34,  60,  77-79, 
82-84,  99-101,  210,  211,  213,  214, 
271-275,  278,  279 ;  Longfellow 
Number,  126;  poems  from,  311- 
3*4,  323-325- 

Longfellow,  Charles  Appleton,  54, 
95,  96,  193 ;  letter  from  Gen.  H. 
B.  Sargent  concerning,  95. 

Longfellow,  Ernest  Wadsworth,  47. 

Longfellow  homestead  at  Byfield, 
Mass.,  15,  16,  230;  picture  by 
Charles  Lanman,  199,  200. 

Longfellow,  Horace  F.,  letters 
from,  15,  16,  238. 

"Longfellow  Memorial  Associa 
tion,"  234,  235. 

Longfellow  relics,  210. 

Longfellow,  Rev.  Samuel,  128,  130, 

I3r»  l63- 
Longfellow,  William,  ancestor,   10, 

II,  15,  201  ;  tax-bill  of,  238. 
Long,    Gov.   John   D.,   tribute  of, 

136-140. 

Longworth,  Nicholas,  203. 
"LovelFs  Fight,"  25. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  9,  41,   46, 


102,  129,  235,  246,  258,  277 ;  on 
"  Kavanagh,"  80,  81 ;  poem  to, 
no;  anecdote  of,  231  ;  criticised 
by  Margaret  Fuller,  265 ;  poem 
by,  307,  308. 
"  Lunatic  Girl,  The,"  336,  342,  343. 

Macchetta,  Madam  A.,  148, 172,  173. 
"  Mad  River,"  207,  208. 
Manner  of  receiving  visitors,  172. 
Maine  Historical  Society,  39,  123. 
Marriage,  first,  39;  second,  55. 
"  Masque  of  Pandora,"  106. 
Massachusetts    Historical    Society, 

233,  279,  292,  300. 
Merits  as  a  translator,  270,  271. 
Monti,  Luigi,  94,  106,  123,  124,  130. 
"Morituri  Salutamus,"  107,  133. 
Morse,  James  H.,  poem  by,  328. 
Munger,  Rev.  T.  T.,  D.D.,  280,  282. 
"Musings,"  336,  349,  350. 
"  My  Lost  Youth,"  21,  22. 

Nahant,  180,  194,  219,  225. 
Nation,  The  New-York,  264-267. 
"New   England    Tragedies,"    102, 

103. 

Newport,  189,  237,  238. 
"Norman's  Woe,  "sketch  by  Charles 

Lanman,  197;  origin  of  the  ballad, 

197,  198. 
North-American  Review,  30,  38,  80, 

81,  97,  98,  261,  290. 
Norton,  Professor  Charles  Eliot,  97, 

98, 101, 130,  152, 167,  233,300-303. 

"  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs,  The,"  71; 

original  of,  72. 

Old  Mill  at  Newport,  189,  237,  238. 
Outre-Mer,  31-38,  54. 
Owen,  John, 63, 68, 113, 130,168-170. 

Paine,  Professor  J.  K.,  187. 
Palmer,  Rev.  Ray,  D.D.,  164,  165. 
Payment  for  early  poems,  28,   196, 
197,217,235,255,  256. 


INDEX. 


357 


Penn  Monthly,  The,  290-292. 
Personal  appearance  and  habits,  39, 

44,  148-154,  174,  203,  256. 
Phelps,  Elizabeth  Stuart,  poem,  314. 
Pike,  Albert,  15. 
Pitman,  Mrs.  M.  J.,  letter  to,  188. 
Plagiarism,  charge  denied,  210-212. 
"Poems  of  Places,"  113-117,218. 
"Poems  on  Slavery,"  65,  66,  278, 

298. 
Poems  set  to  music,  list  of,  184,  187 ; 

of  other  authors,  187. 
Poetic  inspiration,  anecdote  of,  241. 
"  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe,"  54, 

69,  70,  97,  170,  192,  218,  352. 
POETS'  TRIBUTES,  307-334. 
Politeness,  law  of,  defined,  249,  250. 
Politics,  194. 
Poore,  Ben  :  Perley,  198. 
Portland,  Me.,  9,  10,  19-25,  no,  193. 
Portraits  of  Mr.    Longfellow,   218, 

219/231,  241,  256. 
Post,  The  Washington,  249-253. 
Potter,    Mary  Storer,  marriage  to, 

39 ;  death  of,  40 ;  sketch  of,  by  Col. 

Higginson,  40,  41 ;   allusions   to, 

157,  205,  236. 

Preston,  Margaret  J.,  sonnets  by, 
311,  312,325. 

Prideaux,  Mrs.  E.  B.,  poem  by,  331. 

Printers,  relations  with,  107,  223. 

"Psalm  of  Life,"  63;  translation 
into  Chinese,  and  re-translation, 
64;  allusions  to,  132, 139,  252;  ori 
gin  of,  181  ;  criticism  of,  286,  287. 

Punch,  The  London,  poem,  326. 

Puritanism,  261,  262. 

Queen  Victoria,  anecdote  of,  183. 
Quid  pro  quo,  222. 
Quotation,  an  apt,  203. 

Read,  T.  Buchanan,  picture  of 
"Longfellow's  Daughters,"  52, 
219,231. 


Reading  by  twilight,  170. 

Religious  character,  142-145,  157, 
162-165,  226,  227,  304;  belief  in 
immortality,  157,  165,  166. 

Reminiscences  of  a  Boston  journal 
ist,  189-191. 

Rexdale,  Robert,  poem,  320,  321. 
Rhea,  Mile.,  180. 
Roosevelt,  Blanche,  106,  148,  179. 
Ruskin,  John,  82,  259. 

Sale  of  his  works,  34,   58,  63,  68, 

126,  291. 
Savage,  Rev.  M.  J.,  anecdote,  124, 

125;  tribute  of,  145,  146,  162,  163. 

School-books,  editor  and  translator 
of,  29,  30. 

Schoolcraft,  Dr.  Henry  R.,  86,  87. 
"  Schoolmaster,  The,"  34-38. 
Schools,  25,  26. 

Scotland,  poems  set  to  music  in,  187. 
Scudder,  Horace  E.,  34-38. 
"  Seaside  and  Fireside,"  85. 
"Sea-Diver,  The,"  336,  348,  349. 
"  Seven  Voices  of  Sympathy,"  147. 
Seventy-fifth  birthday,  39,  123,  126. 
Shoemaker,  W.  L.,  poem  by,  312. 
Simplicity,  249,  252,  256,  282,  292. 
"Skeleton   in   Armor,   The,"  235; 

origin  of,  237,  238. 
Slippers,  anecdote  of,  193,  194. 
Small  books,  222. 
Smith,  Elizabeth  Oakes,  sonnet,  332. 
Smith,   Mrs.  J.    Oliver,   poems  by, 

3H>  325- 

"Song,"  336,  350. 
"  Song  of  Savoy,  A,"  336,  345,  346. 
Sonnets,  criticism  of,  271-275. 
Sonnets,  two,  from  Spanish, 351,  352. 
Southern  Literary  Messenger,  The, 

282-285. 

South  of  France,  184. 
Souvenir  volume,  a  unique,  238-241. 

Spanish  Student,  The,"  66-68. 


358 


INDEX. 


Speech  at  Sanders  Theater,  121,  122. 
Springfield  Republican,  277,  278. 
"  Stars  of  the  Summer  Night,"  ser 
enade,  66,  67,  185. 

Statute  in  Cambridge,  234. 
Stephenson,  Samuel,  14. 
Stewart  George,  278,  279. 
Stoddard,  R.  H.,  56,  57,277. 
Studying  law,  28. 
Sumner,  Charles,  29,  58,  63,  66,  169- 

171, 194,  198, 199,  201,  230;  sonnet 

to,  273. 

"  Suspiria,"  131. 
Sympathy,  147, 156, 256, 257,264,300. 

"  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,"  90-96. 
Taste,  263. 

Temps  Le,  of  Paris,  267,  268. 
Tennyson,  Alfred  T.,  146,  187. 
Thackeray,  Longfellow's  admiration 

for,  251,  252, 

"Thanksgiving,"  336-338. 
Thayer,  S.   H.,  poem  by,  321,  322. 
Thomas,  Edith  M.,  298,299;  sonnet, 

333.  334- 
Thoroughness  of  preparation,   230, 

261,  271. 

Times,  The  London,  275-277. 
"To  a  Child,"  70. 
Transcript,  The  Boston,  268-270. 
Translations,  30,  42,  69,  96;  quality 

of,    268-271 ;    his    own   poems  in 

other  languages,  291. 
Travels,  29,  40,  41,  65,  66,  103-105. 
Tribune,  The  New  York,  241,  242, 

263,  264 ;  Margaret  Fuller's  criti 
cisms  in,  265. 
Tributes,  American,   134-147;  from 

England,  147,  148. 
Trowbridge,  John  T.,  reminiscences 

of,  254-258. 
Tuckerman,    Henry   T.,    letter   to, 

202,  203. 

"  Ultima  Thule,"  125,  126. 


Underwood,  F.  H.,  196,  297,  298. 
"  Union  soldier  mustered  out, "ori 
gin  of  sonnet,  221,  222. 

Vassal,  Col.  John,  47,  48. 
"Venetian   Gondolier,    The,"  336, 

343>  344- 

Vesuvius,  assent  of,  226-229. 
"Via  Solitaria,"  204-207. 
Vigor  in  old  age,  230,  247. 
"  Village    Blacksmith,   The,"   192, 

265,  267. 

Visitors,  manner  of  receiving,  172. 
"Voices  of  the  Night,"  59,  62,  63, 
132,  196,  265,  297,  298. 

Wads  worth,  Gen.  Peleg,  14-19. 

Wadsworth  homestead  at  Hiram, 
Me.,  25,  74,  75. 

Wadsworth,  Lieut.  Henry,  14. 

"Waif,  The, "68. 

Ward,  Samuel,  235-237. 

Washburn,  Israel,  jun.,  poem,  321. 

Washington,  General,  at  Craigie 
House,  46,  48,  50,  204. 

Wheeler's  history  of  Brunswick,  10. 

Whipple,  Edwin  P.,  67. 

Whitman,  Walt,  66, 129, 156,276,277. 

Whittier,  JohnG.,  9, 15,66, 129, 187, 
190,  230,  235,  258,  260,  277,  281  ; 
visit  to,  199;  poem  by,  310,  311. 

Willis,  Nathaniel  P.,  14. 

Willis,  William,  history  of  Port 
land,  9,  10. 

Wilson,  Gen.  James  G.,  28;  remi 
niscences,  215-221. 

Winter,  William,  poem  by,  308-310. 

Winthrop,  Hon.  Robert  C.,  233. 

Wiseman,  Cardinal,  182. 

Wolf  Ballad,  210-212. 

Works  republished  in  England,  54, 
68,  213,  214. 

"  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,"  65. 
Zurich,  The  Raven  of,  55. 


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